John Wayne at the Alamo

Last night, we had a rare sit down movie opportunity. I turned on the screen and began scrolling through options... Equalizer 3 was tempting, and then my wife saw it PRIDE and PREJUDICE! 

And so that one we did- I had seen it before a while back, but I enjoyed it, and she deserved it. I do think watching these movies with closed captioning on helps me, maybe because my hearing isn't great.

In the movie, many mistakes were made that were the result of "Pride and Prejudice" constrained by customs, obsession with status, and limited opportunities of women in a society that relegates them to service, I get all of that...

But the reaction to that, has allowed the pedulum to swing the total opposite way.

I wrote on this issue before- no more Hollywood stars because of the 'toxic masculinity' mood in Hollywood- (see link here : The Last Action Star?)

Even in the movie last night- Darby was disliked, because he was misunderstood and subject to gossip rampant with disinformation.

It reminded me of a John Wayne quote:

“Everyone wants to feel useful in this old world… to hit a lick for what’s right and say a word against what’s wrong even if you get walloped for saying that word… You do the one or the other. You do the one and you’re living, the other and you’re dead on your feet.”

That’s about as subtle as a hammer. But it’s hard to shake.

Now to be honest- there is a HUGE balancing act here- 

A man without love can become a cruel brute and a man without fight.... well, he ain't a man.

I wrote on this archetype as well, how the movie Forgiven shows the darker side of this glorification of cowboy as fighter - (see link here: Unforgiven)

There’s something about all of this that resonates, especially right now. Most men I talk to don’t want applause. They don’t need fame. But they do want to feel useful. They want to matter. They want to know their life counts for something beyond paying bills and keeping the schedule moving.

Our culture has changed, but the problem hasn’t. You can polish society, create what looks like an “oasis of civilization,” and still never deal with the root issue of the human heart. Without Christ, sin doesn’t go away. It just dresses better.

And that’s part of the tension men feel today.

The Confusion Around Manhood

It’s not easy to know what being a man is supposed to look like anymore. The messages are mixed at best and hostile at worst.

Be strong — but don’t be too strong.
Lead — but don’t appear controlling.
Speak up — but only if your opinion is approved.
Be tender — but don’t be weak.

It leaves a lot of men unsure of where they stand.

The reason that old Western image still appeals to people isn’t really about guns or showdowns. It’s about clarity. That character knew what he believed. He knew when something was right or wrong. And he was willing to absorb the consequences.

That’s what struck me about the quote. “You do the one and you’re living.” In other words, you either step into responsibility, or you slowly drift into passivity. There isn’t much middle ground.

And that’s not about bravado. It’s about engagement.

Most of us aren’t being asked to defend the Alamo. But we are being asked to lead our homes. To disciple our children. To love our wives well. To serve our churches. To stand for truth in ordinary conversations.

That’s where the real fight is. The hard truth is that it’s often easier to disengage. It’s easier to stay quiet. Easier to let someone else take responsibility. Easier to avoid the uncomfortable conversation.

But over time, that kind of avoidance hollows a man out. You may still be busy. You may still be successful. But inside, you know you’re coasting.

That’s what Wayne meant by being “dead on your feet.”

The kind of man our families need isn’t extreme in either direction.

He’s strong enough to protect and provide.
He’s steady enough to be counted on.
But he’s also gentle enough to listen.
Humble enough to admit when he’s wrong.

Strength without tenderness becomes harsh. Tenderness without strength becomes instability. Biblical manhood holds both together.

Which brings us to Jesus.

If we’re honest, even the best cultural images of manhood fall short. They may inspire grit, but they don’t address sin. They don’t change the heart. When you look at Christ, you see something far deeper than a cinematic hero. You see courage that doesn’t need to prove itself. Authority that isn’t insecure. Power that is perfectly controlled.

He confronted hypocrisy directly. He spoke truth clearly. He endured injustice without retaliation. And He went to the cross willingly.

One detail that’s always struck me: after the resurrection, He still bore the scars.

He didn’t erase them. (Why Still the Wounds?)

Those scars were proof of what He had endured. They weren’t signs of weakness; they were reminders of love and victory. The hard road led somewhere. It accomplished something.

We want the easy road. We want growth without discomfort, leadership without sacrifice, influence without cost.

But maturity — real maturity — is forged through difficulty.

Here’s the encouraging part: no matter your season of life, there is still room to grow.

As husbands, we can grow in patience and intentional love.
As dads, we can grow in consistency and presence.
As grandfathers, we can grow in wisdom and spiritual leadership.
As leaders, we can grow in courage and humility.

Growth requires honesty. It requires repentance. It requires leaning into Christ rather than trying to manufacture strength on our own.

The world doesn’t need loud men. It needs faithful men.

Men who know when to speak and when to be silent.
Men who don’t shrink back from truth.
Men who take responsibility for their homes.
Men who are tough when necessary and tender by conviction.

The real measure of a man isn’t whether culture applauds him. It’s whether he is alive in Christ and engaged in what God has called him to do.

and that also means you will have detractors, you will be misunderstood- but someone has to stand strong and tall in that noise.

Song Links:

John Wayne at the Alamo

Unforgiven

Call Me Savage

Hemingway

John Wayne State of Mind

Meeting and Reading the Old Me

Every now and then somebody will dig up something I wrote twenty years ago and send it to me.

And yes… sometimes I read it and think, “Wow. That was… strong.”

For fun sometimes I go back and read a post say like from Feb. 2006 or 2007 and reflect on Feb now in the present. 

To be honest, I like a lot of what I said, but not always...LOL.

If you’ve ever read something I wrote back in the mid-2000s and cringed a little, just know — I probably do too when I read it now.

I’ve honestly thought about going back and cleaning some of it up. Fixing the typos. Breaking up the run-on sentences. Toning down the ALL CAPS moments. Maybe adding a little disclaimer at the top that says:

“The views expressed in this post do not necessarily reflect the host — even though both of them are me.”

The guy who wrote those posts is me. Same convictions. Same heart in a lot of ways. But also not quite the same man.

Reading old writing is like looking at old pictures. You remember the clothes, youthful intensity. You remember what you were fighting for. What felt urgent. What you were trying to protect. And you also see things you’d say differently now. Most of all was this somewhat arrogant urge that I deserved to be heard and known.... and the old 'ham' part of me exists, but now is just a feeling of sowing, not entitled- I don't know if that makes sense.

I don’t want to erase any of it.  I was probably a little fired up about whatever I had seen that week.

But I can also see some things that have fallen off over time.

Less sharpness- less anxiety( that  I didn’t recognize as anxiety). Less fear dressed up as certainty.
Less confidence in my own perspective that probably needed to be humbled.

Sin still clings. My heart is still prone to wander. That hasn’t changed.

But I am more at peace now than I was then. Less reactive. Less fearful. More settled.

I’m more confident in Christ. And honestly, less confident in me.

So no, I’m not going to scrub the archives anytime soon. I’m not going to pretend I didn’t say what I said. That was part of the journey. Growth looks like something over twenty years. Sometimes you can actually see it.

If you read something old and think, “He wouldn’t say it that way now,” you’re probably right.

But that man was on the way to this one.

And I hope, if the Lord gives me another twenty years, I’ll be able to say this same thing again.

There is another part of this that is somewhat opposite, there could be some who read the past and miss that old guy- maybe this 'new' me is too safe or even silly. 

I can tell on my blog where AI began to help me in the editing process, though I have fought hard to let it be just that- but one thing is for sure, there was no such thing in 2010 or 2017....

The music thing has had people scratch their head and look at me with odd expressions... One of my co-workers said to me, "'AI music is sketch, but some of your songs do get stuck in my head"- and I appreciate the sentiment.... in the case of the music, I am writing the lyrics and I work hard on the prompts and genres and finally publish what I like even if no one else does... the soundtrack of my day is much healthier that it was becoming, even Country music had gotten too dark, tongue in cheek hooks made me love the genre, but it is just hip hop with boots and  twang now.

So at odd times, the old me sometimes meets the current me and I wonder if the future me will think the same about the current me like the current me thinks about the old me.

Will we even be reading in the future? Only the Lord knows.  

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The Hemingway Hero

As I look back over previous posts I have written over the years with my analysis of English Romantics, American Modernists... I see one that I tend to ignore- Ernest Hemingway

Hemingway is one of the towering figures of American literature — a writer whose name carries as much legend as literature. He lived boldly and wrote sparingly, crafting stories of war, loss, courage, and what he famously called “grace under pressure.” His prose was stripped down, almost skeletal, built on the belief that the deepest truths lie beneath the surface — the “iceberg” unseen.

If you have never read his style- it is simple rhythm... and for readers who like figurative language, it may seem... bland?

And yet, for all his influence, I have always felt a certain distance from him. While I admire the discipline of his style and understand the archetype of the “Hemingway hero,” it sometimes seems that the mythology of the man — the war correspondent, the bullfighter’s companion, the fisherman in Cuban waters — looms larger than the stories themselves.

What haunts me most is the tragic culmination of his life. In one of his early stories, a young boy asks about suicide, and the answer is chillingly restrained — as if even despair must be handled quietly. Years later, Hemingway himself would die by his own hand. The man who wrote about endurance and stoicism ultimately reached the place where, perhaps, he could not “stand it anymore.”

Hemingway’s work wrestles with strength, but it also reveals the cost of it. His characters stand in the wind — wounded, restrained, dignified — but often without assurance that standing will save them. That tension between courage and collapse may be the truest thing about him.

This song had an original version that I posted 2 years ago, but I didn't like it. I pushed Hemingway lines too hard and it had the activity it deserved... none. LOL.

So I took time this past weekend to pick up some Hemingway, read some of his better known passages and re-did the song. The changes I made really improved what I was driving at- by the way, it is stuff I like even if no one else does.

I send it out into digital space wondering if there are any classic literature nerds left..... we are definitely headed to extinction in this new age. I just hope the ideas stay alive.

Click on the title to hear:

Standing in the Wind

(a tribute to the Hemingway Hero)

Verse 1
In the fall, the war was there,
We walked away, wounds laid bare.
Strength is forged in quiet flame,
Through loss and pride, we played the game.

Verse 2
“The world breaks all,” the old man said,
“Some rise strong, and some just bled.”
Through the dusk, the hero stands,
"Grace under pressure", trembling hands.

Chorus

Let the wind come — we won’t bow.
I may break us — not us now.
Scars don’t mean that we give in,
They’re proof we stood in the wind.

Let us stand in the wind

Verse 3
A quiet room at 2 a.m.,
The walls don’t hide what’s caving in.
Medals rest beside the bed,
But ghosts still speak of things unsaid.

The clock ticks like a distant drum,
Each second asks what we’ve become.
Scars don’t shine in silver light —
They ache the most when it’s this quiet.

Bridge 

I almost laid my purpose down,
Almost let the silence drown.
But something in me still won’t bend —
A quiet voice that says, “Stand.”

Chorus

Let the wind come — we won’t bow.
It may break us — not us now.
Every scar beneath our skin
Says we stood in the wind.

We stood…
We stood in the wind.

Columbia (President's Day)

 

We all know the iconic image of “Columbia”—long before she became associated with Columbia Pictures (founded in 1919 under the less-than-catchy name Cohn-Brandt-Cohn Film Sales).

But Columbia’s story predates Hollywood—and even predates Lady Liberty.

As we approach Presidents’ Day, I’ve been reflecting on the remarkable poet Phillis Wheatley (1753–1784) and her tribute to General George Washington at a defining moment in American history.

Wheatley was kidnapped from West Africa as a child and enslaved in Boston. Yet through extraordinary intellect and determination, she became the first African American woman to publish a book of poetry (1773). At a time when both her humanity and her intellect were questioned, her published volume stood as a quiet but powerful rebuke to the injustice of slavery.

In 1775, during the Revolutionary War, Wheatley wrote a poem titled “To His Excellency, General Washington.” Washington was then Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army—leading a fragile, under-resourced force against the most powerful empire in the world. The American experiment was uncertain. Independence was not yet secured. The future hung in the balance.

In that moment, Wheatley cast Washington not merely as a military leader, but as the defender of an ideal.

She imagined America personified as Columbia—radiant, noble, and divinely guided—moving through the turmoil of revolution with both beauty and strength. And she placed Washington within that vision as the champion of liberty under Providence.

Here’s a taste of her powerful poem:

Celestial choir! enthron'd in realms of light,
Columbia's scenes of glorious toils I write.
While freedom's cause her anxious breast alarms,
She flashes dreadful in refulgent arms.
See mother earth her offspring's fate bemoan,
And nations gaze at scenes before unknown!
See the bright beams of heaven's revolving light
Involved in sorrows and the veil of night!
The Goddess comes, she moves divinely fair,
Olive and laurel binds Her golden hair:
Wherever shines this native of the skies,
Unnumber'd charms and recent graces rise.

In Wheatley’s time, Columbia became a beloved symbol of the young nation—representing its ideals, aspirations, and resilience. Named for Columbus, she embodied the spirit of the “new world,” but more importantly, she embodied liberty itself. Artists and writers of the 18th and 19th centuries depicted her in classical form—draped in flowing garments, crowned with laurel, standing beside eagles or ships, holding symbols of freedom.

But Wheatley’s portrayal may be one of the earliest and most striking literary depictions. Her Columbia is “divinely fair,” yet not passive. She is radiant—but armed. Beautiful—but resolute. She feels the anxiety of a fragile cause, yet stands ready to defend it.

And at the center of that moment stood George Washington.

What is especially moving is that Washington received Wheatley’s poem with gratitude and dignity. He responded with a personal letter thanking her and later invited her to visit his headquarters in Cambridge. In a time of deep contradiction—when a nation proclaiming liberty still permitted slavery—this exchange stands as a small but meaningful moment of mutual respect.

Wheatley saw something in Washington that symbolized hope: a leader striving to secure freedom for a new nation. And Washington, for his part, recognized the brilliance of a young Black poet whose words gave moral weight to the cause.

Throughout the 19th century, Columbia remained a familiar patriotic figure, though by the early 20th century her symbolic role gradually shifted to Lady Liberty. Still, Columbia evokes the founding vision of America—its courage, its aspiration, and its solemn responsibility.

Presidents’ Day gives us an opportunity not merely to remember leaders, but to reflect on leadership itself.

Washington was not perfect—but he understood the gravity of stewardship. He relinquished power when he could have held it. He set precedents of restraint and constitutional order. In doing so, he helped shape not just a revolution, but a republic.

Wheatley’s Columbia captures that same tension—hope mingled with burden. Radiance intertwined with responsibility.

Her poem reminds us that America was born not only through battle, but through vision. Through prayer. Through moral imagination.

And perhaps that is why her words still resonate.

Columbia moves “divinely fair,” but she feels the weight of her mission. Washington leads, but under the gaze of Providence. Freedom shines—but it must be defended and stewarded.

Did you know the very first post on this blog, written 20 years ago, was a prayer for America?

November, 2004- the very first blog post I ever wrote:

Dear God Our Father,
In this time of great division and danger, we ask that you help us. Not that we deserve it, but we want to continue to be a beacon of hope and a model of success. This life is a mixed bag and a temporary host. May you allow us to continue being a preservative of the natural entropy of order.
Lord, the churches are dark in the old land and selfishness reigns. Intellectual imperialism tickles the ears but salve no wounds. Our churches are flickering. Please revive us- give us soft hearts of love and united hearts of courage. We wimper in our prosperity and hoard our greed.
Be gracious to our leaders and heal our land.
In the name and example of Christ,
AMEN

As we observe Presidents’ Day, may we remember both the leader and the poet. May we remember the courage required to found a nation—and the faith required to sustain one.

Wheatley gave us a vision of America that was noble, beautiful, and accountable to heaven.

May we continue striving to live up to it.

Here is the song link:

Columbia

(Verse 1)

In the heart of this land, where freedom grows,

There’s a lady of beauty, in soft repose,

She moves through the ages, a vision so fair,

With laurel and olive bound in her hair.

She’s America’s grace, her strength, her pride,

But today she kneels with us, by our side.

(Chorus)

We’re praying with Columbia, for the heart of the land,

With hope for tomorrow and faith in our hands.

She’s radiant with beauty, yet heavy with care,

For the promise of freedom, we all breathe a prayer.

(Verse 2)

Phyllis saw her standing, strong in the fight,

With “fair freedom” shining, a “heavenly light.”

Though danger and darkness might come her way,

She lifts her gaze to a brighter day.

Now we stand with her, her hopes and her fears,

Her voice through the ages calls out in our ears.

(Chorus)

We’re praying with Columbia, for the heart of the land,

With hope for tomorrow and faith in our hands.

She’s radiant with beauty, yet heavy with care,

For the promise of freedom, we all breathe a prayer.

(Bridge)

The weight of a nation rests on her soul,

She fights for our future, to keep us whole.

In fields of freedom, in skies so blue,

She stands in our shadows, she stands with you.

(Chorus)

We’re praying with Columbia, for the heart of the land,

With hope for tomorrow and faith in our hands.

She’s radiant with beauty, yet heavy with care,

For the promise of freedom, we all breathe a prayer.

(Outro)

So we lend her our voices, we lend her our song,

In the hope of a future where freedom is strong.

She’s America’s dream, her sorrow, her grace—

Together, we pray in this hallowed place.

Barefoot Where I Belong

A story and song for spring........ Always a good time to return from where you have been.

The rideshare driver didn’t say much when the pavement gave way to gravel. The GPS had gone silent five miles back, replaced by fence lines and fields that rolled on without apology.

“Out here?” the driver asked.

“Yep,” he answered.

The car slowed beside a weathered mailbox that still leaned slightly to the left, just like it had when he was twelve. The old farmhouse sat beyond it—white paint worn thin, porch wide and waiting, fields stretching in every direction like open arms that had never quite closed.

He stepped out and back in time.

The door shut with a hollow thud, and for a moment he just stood there, breathing. The air smelled like sun-warmed hay, red dirt, and something sweet drifting from the far pasture. It didn’t smell like city rain on concrete. It didn’t smell like cologne and polished floors and late nights pretending.

He had that inner voice that had changes so much in the last few years. "You thought this place was prison and you hated the decay, now you know it  smelled like truth".

He looked down at the boots he was wearing—expensive, sharp, chosen carefully once upon a time. Tony Lamas. Polished shine. They had looked good in mirrors, under office lights, across bar counters. They had added height. They had added confidence. They had added a version of him that never quite fit.

He was happy to take them off for good- he knew there were some cow patty crusted Brogans in the barn that likely had not moved in years.

He tossed them on the bags that were the only reminders of that far away wasteland of regret.

When was the last time he walked barefoot and free? 

The gravel was rough at first. Then the grass met him—cool and forgiving. He stepped forward, and the earth gave just enough beneath his weight. No echo. No cement. No hard return of footsteps trying to prove something.

Just ground. Every step felt like it was peeling something away.

He had walked far from here. Walked into rooms where he learned how to smile without meaning it. Walked streets that never slept, under lights that never let you see the stars. He had worn boots too tight for too long, marching to a rhythm that promised success but never rest.

He had looked good but it had never felt right. It never was him.

The sun pressed warm against his face now, and he closed his eyes, letting it settle into his skin like it used to when he’d lie in the pasture and watch clouds turn into cattle and ships and dragons. The wind moved through the tall grass, brushing his legs. It carried the faint sound of wind chimes from the porch.

He started walking. Not toward anything specific. Just kept moving forward.

The field opened up around him, wide sky stretching overhead with nothing to prove and nowhere else to be. His Sunday best would have grass stains soon. He almost laughed at the thought. His mother used to fuss over that. His father used to shrug and say, “It’ll wash.”

The dirt clung to his feet. Honest ground. Not polished floors. Not city sidewalks that burned in summer and froze in winter. This soil knew him. It remembered the boy who ran through it barefoot, who climbed fences and fell and got back up without checking who was watching.

Out here, there was nothing left he had to be.

The house grew smaller behind him as he walked deeper into the field. He hadn’t meant to go far, but his feet kept moving as if they were reacquainting themselves with the land. The wind ran through his hair. He tipped his head back and let it.

He had left chasing something—status, approval, a version of manhood stitched together from magazine covers and boardrooms. Nights that made him stronger, yes. Harder, too. But stronger in ways that felt earned, not borrowed.

He sat down and looked back to the sun.

The farmhouse looked smaller now, resting against the horizon. The porch swing swayed slightly. He could almost picture his mother’s hands gripping the railing, shading her eyes.

Then he heard it—

A car door slamming in the distance.

The sharp sound carried across the open field. He had walked farther than he realized.

He squinted toward the house. At first, they were just shapes against the white porch and pale sky. Small. Almost fragile at that distance. Then the shapes began to move.- They were running.

One figure first. Then another. Arms lifting. Waving. Running as if they had been waiting at the door for years and finally saw him not just passing through—but coming home.

He felt something rise in his chest, not loud or dramatic. Just steady and certain - They looked small from here, but he could see the joy in the way they ran.

He looked down at his feet, dusted in dirt and grass, planted in the only soil that had ever known his name before he tried to rename himself.

The sun was sinking low now, but his heart felt strong. He smiled. It felt good to be back where he belonged.

Song: Barefoot Where I Belong

A Streetcar Named Success: How Tennessee Williams Lived the American Nightmare

If Southern Gothic asks, “What happens when the past won’t stay buried?”

Tennessee Williams answers, “People break—but beautifully.”

I went to dinner the other night with a group of friends where the meal was authentic New Orleans–style gumbo—and it was the best I’ve ever had.

 Everything about the night was intentional, almost thematic. The food, the conversation, the pace. We even had Kopi Luwak coffee—made from beans that pass through a civet’s digestive system—once prized for its rarity and smoothness, now better understood as a symbol of how appetite, prestige, and story can sometimes outpace substance.

The evening revolved loosely around the idea of the Vieux Carré, French for “Old Square,” the historic heart of New Orleans. The French Quarter. Old streets laid out centuries ago. A place where music, food, decay, beauty, and excess all coexist. Vieux Carré is also the name of a classic cocktail—and the title of a play by Tennessee Williams set in that very neighborhood. Without realizing it at the time, the setting had already chosen the author.

I hadn’t really read much Tennessee Williams before. So over the next few days I read "A Streetcar Named Desire" and "The Glass Menagerie". I wasn’t blown away by either. They’re interesting, important, and historically significant—but by today’s streaming standards, they feel restrained, even dated. I can see why Marlon Brando’s performance as Stanley Kowalski added a whole new gear to Streetcar—his infamous “STELLA!” practically lives outside the text now—but on the page, the plays felt a bit like the playwright’s name itself: great titles, evocative, suggestive… but not electrifying for me.

What did stop me cold was an essay.

Before Streetcar opened in New York in December 1947, Tennessee Williams published an essay in The New York Times Drama Section titled “A Streetcar Named Success.” And in that essay, Williams is not writing about theater so much as he is writing about the danger of arrival.

He begins by describing how abruptly success came to him after The Glass Menagerie—how one life ended and another began almost overnight:

I will quote a lot of this essay - It stayed with me for days.....

“I was snatched out of a virtual oblivion and thrust into sudden prominence… My experience was not unique.

Success has often come that abruptly into the lives of Americans.

The sort of life which I had had previous to this popular success was one that required endurance, a life of clawing and scratching along a sheer surface and holding on tight with raw fingers to every inch of rock higher than the one caught hold of before, but it was a good life because it was the sort of life for which the human organism is created. I was not aware of how much vital energy had gone into this struggle until the struggle was removed.

This was security at last. I sat down and looked about me and was suddenly very depressed. I thought to myself, this is just a period of adjustment.

In the suite things began to break accidentally. An arm came off the sofa. Cigarette burns appeared on the polished surfaces of the furniture. Windows were left open and a rainstorm flooded the suite.

I lived on room-service. But in this, too, there was disenchantment. Sometime between the moment when I ordered dinner over the 'phone and when it was rolled into my living room like a corpse on a rubber-wheeled table, I lost all interest in it.

Once I ordered a sirloin steak and a chocolate sundae, but everything was so cunningly disguised on the table that I mistook the chocolate sauce for gravy and poured it over the sirloin steak.

I soon found myself becoming indifferent to people. A well of cynicism rose in me.

Conversations all sounded like they had been recorded years ago and were being played back on a turntable. Sincerity and kindliness seemed to have gone out of my friends' voices. I suspected them of hypocrisy.

I stopped calling them, stopped seeing them.

I was impatient of what I took to be inane flattery. I got so sick of hearing people say, "I loved your play!" that I could not say thank you any more. I choked on the words and turned rudely away from the usually sincere person. I no longer felt any pride in the play itself but began to dislike it, probably because I felt too lifeless inside ever to create another. I was walking around dead in my shoes, and I knew it but there was no one I knew or trusted sufficiently, at that time, to take him aside and tell him what was the matter.

This curious condition persisted about three months, till late spring, when I decided to have another eye operation, mainly because of the excuse it gave me to withdraw from the world behind a gauze mask.

It was my fourth eye operation, and perhaps I should explain that I had been afflicted for about five years with a cataract on my left eye which required a series of needling operations and finally an operation on the muscle of the eye.

When the gauze mask was removed I found myself in a readjusted world. 

I checked out of the handsome suite at the first-class hotel, packed my papers and a few incidental belongings and left for Mexico, an elemental country where you can quickly forget the false dignities and conceits imposed by success, a country where vagrants innocent as children curl up to sleep on pavements and human voices especially when their language is not familiar to the ear, are soft as birds'. My public self, that artifice of mirrors, did not exist here and so my natural being was resumed.

Then, as a final act of restoration, I settled for a while at Chapala to work on a play called "The Poker Night," which later became "A Streetcar Named Desire." It is only in his work that an artist can find reality and satisfaction, for the actual world is less intense than the world of his invention and consequently his life, without recourse to violent disorder, does not seem very substantial. The right condition for him is that in which his work is not only convenient but unavoidable.

Success happened to me. But once you fully apprehend the vacuity of a life without struggle you are equipped with the basic means of salvation. 

Once you know this is true, that the heart of man, his body and his brain, are forged in a whitehot furnace for the purpose of conflict (the struggle of creation) and that with the conflict removed, the man is a sword cutting daisies, that not privation but luxury is the wolf at the door and that the fangs of this wolf are all the little vanities and conceits and laxities that Success is heir to-- why, then with this knowledge you are at least in a position of knowing where danger lies. You know, then, that the public Somebody you are when you "have a name" is a fiction created with mirrors and that the only somebody worth being is the solitary and unseen you that existed from your first breath and which is the sum of your actions and so is constantly in a state of becoming under your own volition--and knowing these things, you can even survive the catastrophe of Success! 

It is never altogether too late, unless you embrace the Bitch Goddess, as William James called her,

(note: William James uses the term in his 1907 book Pragmatism. There is a certain worship of success in American life, a devotion to what he calls the “bitch-goddess Success.”)

with both arms and find in her smothering caresses exactly what the homesick little boy in you always wanted, absolute protection and utter effortlessness. Security is a kind of death, I think, and it can come to you in a storm of royalty checks beside a kidneyshaped pool in Beverly Hills or anywhere at all that is removed from the conditions that made you an artist, if that's what you are or were intended to be.

Ask anyone who has experienced the kind of success I am talking about--What good is it? Perhaps to get an honest answer you will have to give him a shot of truth-serum but the word he will finally groan is unprintable in genteel publications.

(Note- I am reminded of the Guy de Maupassant quote that is understood to be a pithy summary of his outlook on life and desire: “I have coveted everything and taken pleasure in nothing.”)

Then what is good? The obsessive interest in human affairs, plus a certain amount of compassion and moral conviction, that first made the experience of living something that must be translated into pigment or music or bodily movement or poetry or prose or anything that's dynamic and expressive--that's what's good for you if you're at all serious in your aims. William Saroyan wrote a great play on this theme, that purity of heart is the one success worth having. "In the time of your life--live!"

(note: William Saroyan & The Time of Your Life (1939) Saroyan wrote the play in the late 1930s, on the eve of war, in a moment when America was anxious, disillusioned, and unsure what “winning” even meant anymore. The line comes from the play’s epigraph and recurring moral center: “In the time of your life—live!” And the idea —“that purity of heart is the one success worth having”—is Saroyan’s explicit thesis.)

That time is short and it doesn't return again. It is slipping away while I write this and while you read it, and the monosyllable of the clock is Loss, Loss, Loss unless you devote your heart to its opposition.

Reading this essay, it struck me that Williams wasn’t just describing a personal crisis. He was diagnosing a cultural one. What he feared in his own life—the confusion of success with safety, prosperity with meaning—is a trap that has always haunted the American Dream. And when opportunity is severed from virtue, the dream quietly becomes a nightmare.

Every February, I try to observe some kind of fast. I don’t want to go into the details now, but reading Williams—and thinking through where success, comfort, and attention quietly reshape us—has already begun to influence what that fast will look like this year. Rather than a withdrawal for its own sake, it feels more like an experiment in resistance: a way of paying closer attention to what I consume and what consumes me. I’ll be curious to see where it leads, and perhaps when the month is over, I’ll have something worth reporting—not as a conclusion, but as an experience.

Update: This is kind of bizarre, but in trying to capture the mood of this amazing essay from Williams- I felt I needed a more bleak symbol... so it landed at the tragedy of Howard Hughes- 

Song: The Last Days of Howard Hughes

Music video: Last Days of Howard Hughes Video

Here We Are Again in the Garden of Gray

Note: I normally avoid wading into the sharp and tangled debates that swirl around tragedies like the one in Minnesota. My deepest desire has always been to encourage unity, grace, and the faithful proclamation of the gospel rather than contribute to cultural division.

In the past, I’ve started posts, stopped, rewritten, and even retracted them because I did not want my words to inflame when they should invite reflection. I’ve struggled with this — not because I lack conviction, but because I understand how easily good intention can be misunderstood when poured into a landscape divided by bias, strong presuppositions, and fragmented realities.

Hard to believe it has been a decade regarding Baltimore/Ferguson. Here was the mood back then:

In Screens We Trust (Baltimore)

Yet here I am again — not because I think I have all the answers, but because we cannot simply turn away from these moments. When we refuse to speak honestly, we leave only the loudest voices to fill the void. When we retreat out of fear of offending, we surrender the space to those who thrive on division rather than dialogue.

My hope is not to score points or to settle partisan scores. I write because I believe we must seek truth together, even when it lives in the gray between outrage and resignation — and especially when that truth is uncomfortable.

Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; [20] for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God. [21] Therefore put away all filthiness and rampant wickedness and receive with meekness the implanted word, which is able to save your souls. [22] But be doers of the word, and not hearers only, deceiving yourselves. (James 1:19–22 ESV)

We are all disturbed by the tragedy that has taken place in Minnesota. Lives have been lost, communities are hurting, and the tension surrounding it feels raw and unresolved. It is the kind of moment that demands careful thought, yet feels almost impossible to discuss honestly. Grief is close to the surface, emotions are high, and words are easily misheard or weaponized.

Perhaps that is why our conversations so quickly fracture. Many of us now live inside echo chambers—formed by algorithms, social media, and selective news consumption—that reinforce what we already believe rather than challenge us. Bias has always existed, but today it is paired with something more corrosive: disinformation and half-truths repeated until certainty replaces understanding. In that environment, deliberation gives way to reaction, and discourse gives way to division.

I do not pretend to know exactly where the balance lies right now—where the pendulum between order and liberty currently rests. What I do know is that societies rarely drift into authoritarianism from only one direction. Excessive force and unchecked power can push a nation there. But prolonged unrest, fear, and the breakdown of shared norms can also create the conditions in which people begin to demand a strong hand. History offers few examples where sustained disorder ends in freedom.

This is the paradox we struggle to name. What is decried as authoritarianism on one side can become the very outcome produced by chaos on the other. That reality does not excuse abuses of authority. Power must always be restrained, accountable, and legitimate. Brute force cannot substitute for trust. Yet protest without limits—harassment, intimidation, vandalism, doxing, or deliberate provocation—does not strengthen justice either. It accelerates escalation and makes restraint more difficult for everyone involved.

Perhaps the deeper issue is not only what we are arguing about now, but what we failed to build long before this moment.

In a relatively benign way- I came to understand this slowly during my years as a Dean of Students—after some good decisions and more than a few mistakes. Discipline was never something I mastered quickly, nor was it ever clean. Over time, I learned that rules could not be applied mechanically if they were going to be just. Authority had to be exercised with discernment, shaped by the individual in front of me, not merely the infraction on paper.

I could not let my love for law override my love for people. But I also learned that the opposite failure carried its own cost. Refusing to confront wrongdoing did not make me compassionate; it often meant that victims’ needs were ignored, that harm went unaddressed, and that boundaries quietly eroded. Justice required navigating between those extremes—a space that was almost entirely gray.

Often, what appeared to be a minor issue was no longer about the rule itself. A dress code violation, for example, ceased to be about clothing and became about whether authority would be acknowledged at all. That always raised the same difficult question: Is this worth it? Not enforcing boundaries invited disorder. Enforcing them too rigidly risked disproportionate harm. The goal was never punishment for its own sake, but formation—teaching self-discipline early, in a place where mistakes could still be corrected without permanently altering the course of a life.

I could not do that work alone. It required partnership with parents, colleagues, and a willingness to admit when I was wrong. Divided authority—especially when adults were not on the same page—made discipline nearly impossible. Inconsistent expectations taught students to exploit the gaps, not because they were malicious, but because systems always teach behavior. Restraint depended on legitimacy, consistency, and trust.

By the time authority is encountered only through law enforcement or the full weight of the state, the opportunity for that kind of formative correction has often already passed. The consequences are sharper, the margins for grace narrower, and the outcomes far more permanent. Schools and homes are meant to be the last places where correction is personal and survivable. When those foundations weaken, we ask police and governments to do work they were never meant to do: moral formation.

None of this fits neatly into partisan narratives. It requires holding two truths at once—that unchecked power is dangerous, and that unchecked disorder invites it. That restraint is essential, and that restraint itself must be learned. A society that abandons early formation should not be surprised when force becomes the only remaining tool.

I do not know where we are on the pendulum. I do know that shouting across divides will not steady it. What is needed now is not less conversation, but better conversation—one grounded in humility rather than certainty, in responsibility rather than outrage, and in a shared commitment to rebuild the foundations that make freedom sustainable.

If we cannot speak to one another honestly—if we cannot agree on legitimacy, boundaries, and restraint—then the question before us is no longer who is right.

The question is whether the foundation we need is still intact…

or whether we will only recognize its absence once everything built upon it begins to fall. 

I do know this for a fact (and probably true of me as well)- I can read almost every social media post from anyone on my feed and I can guess with a high view of accuracy where you get your news......

We need to simmer down and listen- we need to be compassionate and pray- we need to stop accusing in hyperbole- we need to find common ground.....

Never forget the lesson of the Templar's- I tried to capture it in a song:

Every Holy War Ends This Way

The Price of a Day

You can find all the Jan. 26 posts here: https://bearbryantmemories.wordpress.com/

Every January 26, I pause.

I pause to remember Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant—not only the championships, the records, or the houndstooth hat that became iconic, but the man who taught lessons that reached far beyond football.

One of those lessons came in 1982.

At a team meeting that year, Coach Bryant reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. It was worn, creased, and clearly carried often. He told us he kept it with him as a reminder of what truly mattered.

Then he read it to us.

It wasn’t a play.
It wasn’t a motivational speech.
It was a poem.

And when he finished reading, the room was silent.

Here is the poem Coach Bryant carried—and lived by:

The Beginning of a New Day

Heartsill Wilson

This is the beginning of a new day.
God has given me this day to use as I will.

I can waste it or use it for good.
What I do today is very important
because I am exchanging a day of my life for it.

When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever,
leaving something in its place I have traded for it.

I want it to be a gain, not a loss—good, not evil.

Success, not failure, in order that I shall not regret
the price I paid for it.

Coach Bryant understood that poem in a way few people do.

He knew that every morning, God hands us a day—twenty-four brand-new hours—and the price of that day is our very life. You can’t borrow time. You can’t save it for later. You either spend it well, or you lose it forever.

That lesson stayed with me.

Years later, it became a song I wrote called “The Price I Paid for Today.” It’s my own reflection on that moment in 1982, and on the truth Coach Bryant impressed upon us so simply and so powerfully: time is not free.

Every day asks a question of us.

Did we spend it on love or anger?
Did we build or did we tear down?
Did we honor God with the wage we asked for—or settle for something less?

Coach Bryant didn’t preach long sermons. He didn’t have to. He lived what he taught. He understood discipline, accountability, and faith—not just in football, but in life.

As we remember him today, I believe this is the question he would still want us to ask ourselves:

What did I spend my time on today?

Because when this day is over, it’s gone.
And the price we paid for it… is our life.

“See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise,
Redeeming the time, because the days are evil.”
— Ephesians 5:15–16

Thank you, Coach.
For the lessons that never fade.

You can find the song here: The Price I Paid for Today