A Message To Those Who Voted For The Right To Work Law In Wisconsin

To my Republican representatives:
     Thank you very much for passing the Right To Work Bill. I am very flattered that you were thinking about me. But, you see, I already have a job. In fact, I have been working my entire adult life.
     If that is not what you meant by Right To Work, I urge you to speak plainly, because those who do not are apt to be mistaken for liars and charlatans.
     I would thank you for listening to the concerns of Wisconsin workers in passing this bill, but I don’t recall any general call for this bill to be passed. As a matter of fact, even the wacky neighbor that puts hand written signs on his front lawn has never mentioned a need for a Right To Work law. So what exactly put this thought into your head and what made the need for it so immediate? Perhaps it was the sound of hundred dollar bills rustling into your campaign coffers that you mistook for the murmur of your constituents. Perhaps those out of state contributions given by billionaires anxious to drive down wages here and everywhere else temporarily blinded you to the ideals of representative democracy.
     So next time please ask me, John Q. Public, before passing a bill. Because I have plenty of suggestions for you, as do many of my neighbors and coworkers. Here are a few:
Instead of a Right To Work law, how about a Right To Have Off When I Need To Take A Family Member To The Doctor law? How about a Right To Job Security law? Or a Right To Only Have To Work Five Days A Week Law? Ask any of the fine folk in your voting district and I’m sure they’d have an idea or two that would be better than what you just voted for.
     Of course, we do like to see you in office actually doing something other than attending fundraisers, so I hesitate to complain. We’re glad to see you on the job, and we all know it’s not your fault the system’s the way it is. All we ask is that when you spout off about wasting the tax payer’s money, that you realize that most of what we begrudge is giving our hard earned wages to people like you.
     There are many things you could do to help a hard working, taxpaying citizen such as myself: taking away what little voice I have in my work environment shouldn’t be at the top of your list. But it seems when you are among us working guys you don’t listen so much as talk. Instead of listening to what we say, you are eager to tell us what you are going to do for us and how your solution is the best solution. It’s only when you’re with your rich contributors that you seem to be all ears. Forgive my cynicism, but I can’t help thinking that is because you are listening to their cash falling into your campaign chest.

Stream Of Consciousness Entry Part 1

Twenty years ago, while in Advanced Composition, we were given the assignment of writing everyday in a journal. It was the first time I had the need to write without being given any idea what to write about. What it turned into was a stream of consciousness writing that opened up new doors inside of me as I shut down the inner censor that was always hampering my inner voice. It started slowly, eventually opening up something inside me that was revelatory. I cannot say you will have the same effect reading it as I did writing it, but I’m willing to see. The process is gradual, so you will have to be patient. No attempt has been made to correct any errors except for spelling.

12-12-95

Writing without having a clue about what I’m supposed to write about give to me an amount of freedom. I cannot possibly run out of things to write when I have no…Or at least I thought so. Stream of consciousness thought is easy to do but hard to put on paper. The thoughts flow freely, but the hand that records c an only move so fast. Thoughts are lost, often forever, as the slug-like fingers crawl across drag the pen across the page. Then again, there is the part of me which wishes to edit, to conceal whatever defects I may show. AS much as I don’t like to admit it, I am proud, with plenty of petty vanities. Stream of consciousness shows my thoughts as they occur, not as I would like someone to think they occur. I can only imagine, though, that others feel the same way, that no matter how honest we think we are, we hide ourselves behind little masks, many of which hide ourselves from ourselves. I don’t particularly like where my thoughts are headed, but feel compelled to continue this line of thought. Jack London writes in John Barleycorn that there are two levels of truth, the healthy truth and the higher level. The healthy truth teaches us to cherish the things that help us survive. The higher truth simply is, without concern for us. Jack London said he glimpsed truth unrobed and turned in horror. I feel compelled to look at what London could not deal with. And yet I am afraid to relate that which I see. I am afraid to confess my fear, my weakness, myself. And without other people’s input, I think my vision is skewed by who I am, that others might see things in a different light. There is a fine line, I suppose, between honesty and an over willingness to burden other people with one’s problems. I mean, everybody has problems, right? Nobody likes a whiner, and it’s not healthy to dwell on negative ideas. Nothing is good or bad except in proportion. A certain amount is good, but too much more or less makes it bad.

But here I run from the truths I wished to find. And even now I am thinking I will destroy this paper before anyone sees it. I am ashamed of my unguarded thoughts. Ashamed more of their bizarreness or mundaneness than anything else. But perhaps just there I lied. I am afraid that anyone reading this might find me strange. I feel an unguarded me is an unpleasant one. I am here unguarded by the civilized me and am face to face with baseness, cowardly emotions and base desires.

It’s funny, but I am merely a collection of things, none of which is the true me. There is no indivisible whole that I can point to and call “me”. Whatever. I do not like where this is leading. Should I terminate this line of thought? Run from truth laid bare? Because it is true, you know, all of it.

I sometimes tend to think that evil is an illusion, that if I look clearly at it I will understand it and not be frightened by it, that there is nothing to fear. Other times, I am all too sure that it is an entity, to be avoided, and if need be, run from. I think at some level, we all run from the truth. I think I have had enough of this line of thought—at least for now.

The Fifteen Hour Work Week

“With the natural resources of the world, the machinery already invented, a rational organization of production and distribution, and an equally rational elimination of waste, the able-bodied workers would not have to labour more than two or three hours per day to feed everybody, clothe everybody, house everybody, educate everybody, and give a fair measure of little luxuries to everybody.”

     This was written in 1905 by Jack London, a hundred ten years ago.

     What has happened since then? Mankind has invented the airplane. He has invented the cartridge pen and later the ball point pen. He has invented the electric typewriter, the word processor and now the computer. Where it once took weeks for news to circle the world we can now receive it almost instantly. Documents that once needed to travel by rail, by ship and by horse and buggy are now zipped by satellites effortlessly and instantly.

     And the machines of industry have increased almost unbelievably as well. The machine I now operate is twice as efficient as the one I used to operate, is ten times more efficient than the ones in the memories of people I work with. Easily, production has increased tenfold since the time Jack London wrote those words, proclaiming that there was no need for able bodied workers to work more than two or three hours a day. That should put our workday at somewhere between 12 and 18 minutes.

     So what has happened since then? How did we go from a married man working 50-60 hours a week to a couple averaging 100 hours or more a week?

     There are the labor saving devices we have to pay for, I’ll give you that. A washer and a dryer, dishwashers and garage door openers save us some time working at home. But they save physical labor, the kind that is healthy and for the most part stress relieving. Because we now sit at desks for 50 hours a week instead of doing physical labor, we now have to run to the gym after our 10 hour work day and get a workout in. So in the long run our riding lawn mowers and our snow blowers have not really saved us any time.

     What has happened to us since then? How did we end up a society that pays someone to walk our dogs so we can drive our SUVs to the gym to hit the treadmill for an hour? How did we get here from there?

     Sure, we all have televisions nowadays. Really big ones. But a hundred years ago, people would go out to see a play or sit on the porch and talk to our neighbors as they happened by, or played cards with parents or children. Was that a good trade we made?

     Granted we have food from all over the world now, and we can eat the most tropical of fruits in the middle of winter. But very few of us now have grandma’s preserves sitting on our shelves. Very few of us eat vegetables picked fresh from the gardens we or someone we know lovingly tended. Very few of us would even know how to raise food from the ground. Very few of us would know how to prepare an animal, to either raise livestock or hunt for our own dinner.

     We’ve lost something and I don’t know how we let it happen. And we’re all in such a hurry to get things done, I’m worried we’ll never find the time to wonder how it all went wrong. Life should be better than this. We should demand the benefits that our labor saving devices have supposedly given us. We should be humans again, take time to smell the roses, spend time with those we love, do the things that are worth doing and ask the questions that need to be asked:

     So once again I ask you--if you can find the time to come up with an answer—what happened?

A Short Story

Here's the first story in my collection, Stories Light And Dark. Since Kindle allows you to read it for free anyhow, I may as well post it here as well. If you like this, you might want to check out the rest of the book, available here: Stories Light And Dark 1 If you are a member of Kindle Unlimited, you can borrow it for free. I always want to tell people my stories aren't all as dark as this. Or, if it's a spiritual story, I want to tell them they're not all like that. That's why I gave my compilation the title I did.

The Last Hours Of Brandon Kratz

The trail of corpses will lead them here. They’ll find their killer, they always do. But the reign of terror made it worthwhile, a few days of carnage that had the entire country glued to their television sets wondering how long it would last. And though it will all end at the cabin up ahead, the world will not soon forget the name of Brandon Kratz.

The cabin cannot be too far now, I know these woods too well to be mistaken.

They will find their man, but they’ll never find the answers they’re looking for. They’ll never understand how a seemingly loving family man could have killed his wife and children and fed them to the neighbor’s dogs. They’ll never understand how a person who looked so normal could be capable of such evil. Sure, there’s the rambling manifesto they found on Facebook, but that will serve more to disturb than enlighten. They’ll talk to the neighbors and relatives, who will tell them what a friendly and helpful person Brandon Kratz had always been. But these answers are not the ones that will help them sleep soundly at night. These are answers that only serve the festering doubt and fear that will linger in their minds and hearts.

What they want is to think that there is something that separates unfeeling, uncaring killers from the rest of society, some distinction that they can make and so separate the horror from their own lives. But they will find no answers because there are none, at least not the kind that bring comfort. Many murderers have given their explanations for what they have done, but the average person is unwilling to accept the truth of such explanations. They want rational reasons and are unwilling to cross into the territory of insanity, which is where all the real answers lie. They like to believe in a rational world, but they are too cowardly to embrace the truth that the world is the better part irrational.

I continue on my way towards my final destination, keeping to the woods and shadows in case the helicopters come. There is a determination in my stride, and I will myself to confidence regarding the direction I take. There really is no point in doubting myself now.

Would you like my truth? I have done what I did because I am God to myself. Perhaps you feel the same way too: frankly, I don’t care. I only know that there is no reason not to take what I want, do what I want. I see no reason to care about a world that is outside of myself. What good is it if it is not there for my pleasure? I don’t care about you, nor would I ask you to care about me.

Ah, but you do care, don’t you? You and everybody in Southern California are very concerned about me, concerned that I am out there, somewhere, unchained by the laws of society. You will not rest soundly until Brandon Kratz is captured or dead. Have no fear, you will get your wish soon enough.

I estimate I have about a fifteen minute walk yet. The going is slower than I anticipated. But I cannot come up short now, not when I am so close to the end.

The life of a serial killer is brief but thrilling. I am like a force of nature that tears through a neighborhood, a city, the countryside. Like an approaching tornado, a community forgets about their normal lives and activities. I am the one concern. I am the center of the universe, mine and theirs. And for a brief time, I am the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters. Ayn Rand grasped merely a portion of the truth. If self-interest is the highest good, why stop at pursuing my own ends, why not bend all others to my own desires? Why not have the universe exist for me?

And so it began. If one starts out quietly, there is a lot of time to commit the initial murders before talk of a serial killer begins. I disposed of the wife and children first. I then quietly dispensed with the elderly woman across the street. With her blood I left a note on her wall in order to alert the authorities as to whom they were dealing with—the name Brandon Kratz was written in letters five feet tall, with every drop the old woman had in her. It took her lazy son two days to get around to paying her a visit, even after he must have heard about the murders in her neighborhood.

I guess I’m fortunate that I don’t look like a killer. People seem to trust me, maybe because I’m good at appearing caring. Even more important than not appearing threatening, I believe my features are generic enough to allow me to blend in with a crowd. If you saw me walking down the street, chances are you wouldn’t even notice me. Try it the next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall. Take a look around you and see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz that’s about to go off the deep end. See if you can spot the one carrying a weapon, see if you can catch a glimpse of murder in a stranger’s eye.

The temperature is warm and I am dressed for protection rather than comfort. The sweat makes my clothing cling to my body, making every movement an exertion. It occurs to me that I haven’t slept since this all started, more than three days now. I have been living on adrenaline, but that can only take you so far. I am tired. I’m glad that I am almost at the end of my journey. I think back on what a journey it has been.

There’ve been a lot of mass murders in the L.A. area recently. There’s been such a rash of murders that people are wondering if there is something in the air or in the water. There is a lot of talk and—typically—nothing will ever come of it. But even in this place and time, the name of Brandon Kratz will stand out. More than Billy Moreau’s four murders, more than Eric Cooper’s five. Even Ryan Kennedy’s seven murders don’t add up to Brandon Kratz’s total. I’ve been on quite a roll. Let’s see, now, Stefani Kratz, and Codi Kratz, and little Amber. Old lady Weathers. That hitchhiker, Chad, I think his name was. And then there was the mall shooting. I only killed two there, but I escaped, which was the important thing. I don’t think anybody even saw me there, although I’m sure I must be on some security camera somewhere wearing my trench coat and black military helmet. Kind of stupid of me, doing that at a crowded mall. Too easy to get caught. They could have got me alive, which would have been horrible. They would have stuck me under a microscope and viewed me like I was a bug. Much better this way, where they are searching for me with satellites.

Sorry, where was I? Six—no, seven, I’m forgetting Chad again. And then there were the two sheriff’s deputies that pulled me over. That was well done, they were armed and dangerous. But it cost me; I had to leave my car in the process and I’m pretty sure the cops will know where I am and that I’m on foot. I’m in the woods so they’ll be able to limit their search to a relatively small area. The road’s coming to an end for Brandon Kratz, but it will be the ending that I design. All I have to do is make it to the cabin.

It won’t be far now. I’d love to get rid of this riot facemask, but it’s part of the plan. There’s really no path anymore, just trees and undergrowth. Still, I know it can’t be far. I feel it in my bones.

I approach the cabin. It does not belong to me, but I know about it, planned to make it the end of my road. I open up the door and the terrified pleas begin.

“Where’s my family? Did you do something to them? Are they okay? Why are you doing this? Please, please don’t hurt them.”

“Now, Mr. Kratz,” I say “I’ve explained this to you before. There’s been a lot of killing and someone is going to have to take the blame for all the damage done.”

What society really wants is to get a hold of the psychopath and make him pay for what he’s done. But they rarely get the chance. Too often, the murderer kills himself rather than being taken alive. Such will be the case today.

“The people will need some kind of closure, no matter how unfulfilling,” I continue. “A corpse is better than nothing. At least that way they’ll be able to sleep tonight.

“Now if you’ll agree to open your mouth for me, I can promise to make your end short and painless. But it won’t look like suicide through clenched teeth. Are you going to cooperate?”

He looks at me with a clenched jaw and a look of defiance, as though anything he did mattered to me.

“No? Well, your loss. This might take a while longer, but the result will be the same.”

I place the gun to the side of Brandon Kratz’s head, wait for him to stop his futile head movements. I’m tempted to make the shot a poor one, make him suffer for his insolence. But I know I can only use one shot if it’s going to look like it is self-inflicted. I have to make it a good one. When I know I have a good shot, I pull the trigger. It’s a full cascade of blood, brain and bone that comes out the other side of his head, and Kratz quickly slumps in his chair. I untie my victim and allow him to drop to the floor. He’s lying in his ever-increasing pool of blood, his tongue hanging from his mouth as though he were a gibbering idiot. “It’s a pity they never count my final victim,” I think to myself. I always feel cheated by that.

According to news coverage, Brandon Kratz’s body was found in a cabin in the mountains last evening. He had shot himself in the head, it was reported, his suicide bringing to an end the latest and deadliest in a recent spate of killings. As for me, I’m busy clipping newspaper articles at the moment. After a little time off to rest up, I’ll be searching once again for another Brandon Kratz, the normal kind of person that no one would ever suspect could commit the horrible crimes he’ll be accused of.

The next time you’re in a busy restaurant or a crowded mall, take a look around, see if you can spot the next Brandon Kratz. Is it the tired-looking waitress that’s pouring your coffee, the man sitting next to you with his wife and kids, or the older gentleman at the bookstore who looks incapable of harming a fly? It could be anybody. It might even be you.

A Poem From A Soldier To His Mother (Part 2)

Here is another poem I found that my dad had sent to his mother while away from home during World War II. As much as it speaks of a different age, it also speaks to me of a young man I never knew, the man my father was long before I was ever born.

This country of ours is waging

A battle from sea to sea

And I’m truly grateful

That the battle includes me.

Though myself, I’m not superhuman

And though myself I can’t win this war

Just think of the effect it would have

To add to me ten million more.

Some may be majors and captains

While us privates acquire no fame

But what good is a picture

If it hasn’t got a frame.

I stand ready to do my duty

To fight and to die if there’s need

So that the people I left behind me

Needn’t under a dictator bleed.

When this mess is cleared up

And when our men return

There will be celebrations

And there will be no need to yearn

The men will then take over

To relieve women tired and ill

Let women return to her household

While men return to the mill.

Let new cars roll out of the factory

Let people have tires and gas

Let wives have sugar and coffee

Let sportsmen return to their bass

Let baseball return to its standing

As America’s No. 1 game

Let football and hockey and tennis

Return and again be the same.

Why I Write

I spent the better part of my Sunday playing around on the internet, avoiding the attempt of putting words down into a physical form. And then the words seemed to flow and this is part of what I recorded. This is why I write, to discover that such things exist inside of me. Not sure how well it translates to the reader, but perhaps with a little polish...

     Nevertheless, Doug lifted the old metal latch that was the occupants’ only protection from what was outside their sanctuary and slowly opened the door of rotted wood. Its rusty hinges resisted, as did a certain warning in his heart. But as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a small human form lying curled up on an undersized bed in the corner of the almost empty room. Doug was full of the fear that the suffering of another of God’s creatures could bring upon a man. He wanted to look away, to say that there was nothing he could do for him. He wanted just to forget, to flee and save himself. But he had a certain amount of pride, a degree of teaching from his parents that dictated that this is not how he should act. He was a human and he would act like one. He was not an animal, deaf to the suffering of others. And besides, even animals had empathy for others, he had witnessed it himself. Swallowing his own fear, he reached out to connect with another living soul.

     “Are you okay?” Doug asked into the darkness. The uninterrupted whimpering of the child did not in any way show that he had been heard. Not having any idea what to do, Doug approached the bed and knelt down to the figure lying upon it. The smell of sweat and overripe hay hit his nostrils, the shivering of the child palpable from the short distance he maintained. He recognized him now as the child in the field the other evening, the one who had cut his hand on the sharp blade of the sugar cane. His hand was still bandaged with the dirty rag his mother had torn from her dress. Doug was afraid to touch him, both for himself because it might increase his closeness to suffering and because he might frighten him. Instead of touch he used words.

     “Don’t be afraid. I know what he did, know what Delavois did. I won’t let him hurt you,” Doug promised, knowing his promise to be an empty one. He was helpless to stop Delavois from doing anything he wanted, but Doug knew he would have to find a way to stop him, knew that helplessness was not acceptable. This would have to end and he was the one who would have to put a stop to it. He didn’t know how but it somehow felt that his will would open a rift in reality to permit it. Delavois’ power, after all, was a rift in reality, a wrongness crying out to be righted. Suddenly, this purpose placed itself above all others in Doug’s mind, higher than the urge for self-preservation that was the default setting for all living things. Here, in the darkness, amidst the suffering of a child bereft of his mother, Doug discovered something so beautiful he almost wept at the realization of it. It was the opposite of what had Delavois had gripped so tightly, that fear that so much shaped mankind’s reality. It was a truth at least as powerful as all the darkness and corruption that surrounded him.

A Poem From A Soldier To His Mother

I was going through some things at my mom’s house and came across something my father sent to his mother after enlisting. I thought a poem from a son to his mother during World War II might be interesting to more than just me.

There’s a lonely mother somewhere

And a lonely soldier too

He is many mile away from home

He’s thinking this night of you

He may not have been the best son

That a mother ever had

But though he wasn’t perfect

He wasn’t very bad

Like a million other mothers

To this country you gave a man

For we now have a war to win

And he’ll win it if he can

He appreciates his mother

Now, as he never did before

For he knows that he loves you

And will forever more.

Someday the war shall be over

And someday the fighting done

And the sons will return to their mothers

And the mothers to their sons.

Your Loving Son,

Walter