Poleaxe

Writing prompt: random word from the dictionary

poleaxe

A poleaxe has both an axe head and a smaller hammer-head-like blade at the end of a shaft. The poleaxe belongs in the family of weapons shaped from metals, which includes swords and sabers, spears, daggers, jousting poles (I think), and bayonets.

As an object that one simply looks at, the poleaxe presents a pleasing balance and exciting "there"-ness. Most poleaxes are close to the height of the average human male, and they look strong and useful immediately. Because the blades extend away from the shaft, they offer almost endless possibilities for ornate design, while not losing any of their characteristic rugged firmness. If I remember correctly, the guards at the Tower of London stand holding a poleaxe. Not by coincidence but by appeal as an image of potency and guardianship did the poleaxe become a mainstay in the visual representation of today's largely ceremonial royalty.

For several millenia, human beings, mostly men, have maimed and dismembered each other with sharpened metal objects like the poleaxe. The imagining of the violent dispatch of fellow human beings begs a question in my mind, however. What brings conscious, rational beings to do this to each other? First I think of the fact that the human mind has a well-developed capacity for dividing other human beings into "like" and "hate" groups. Add to that the tendency of groups of people to feel a collective amplified emotion, plus the tendency of groups of people to act with power, and a human activity is born.

The application of a poleaxe to a human being's torso, arms, legs, head, or feet causes extremely garish wounds accompanied by a very splashy release of blood. The importance of striking the first blow and making it count cannot be overrated. One man's experience of a battle might last only a few minutes if he entered the fray swinging a sword wildly and missed his enemy, after which a poleaxe chopped off his arm and cut through several of his ribs in one swooping blow. He would no doubt scream in a pitch beyond all desperation, a terrifying scream never heard by peaceful, nonviolent mortals, as his lifeblood began to spatter on the ground. In the grip of blind terror he might run around madly, in complete delirium, for a short time until he fell down from shock and loss of blood. The screaming might continue for some seconds until his body could no longer provide the energy and his brain activity slowed down and then stopped. Then he would become a still-life object, a mangled one-armed corpse, the outcome of human body versus poleaxe.

The ceremonial image of the poleaxe surely raises in some observers a subconscious awareness of the consequences of administering the weapon in combat. The ancient castle, guarded by men with a human-sized maiming tool, seems impregnable. That kind of observer recoils from the subconscious sense of gross harm to the body. The beautiful, strong, balanced, impassable poleaxe speaks silent devastation.

AIDS

Tonight I met a man who works in client services at Chattanooga Cares, the HIV/AIDS support entity for Hamilton County. Every day he helps AIDS sufferers through life--getting to the doctor, paying for utilities, keeping daily existence together.

Talking to him reminded me of the AIDS support charity in San Francisco I visited in 1996 on a domestic mission trip. First thing that strikes one like a whack to the head: the charity was losing clients at the rate of more than 100 a week. The dead. And another whack: as fast as those clients died, new ones replaced them. New cases of AIDS. Should we say, filling the pipeline? No, but that was the effect. The horror of the thought that a hundred people a week were entering (at that time) the path of doom that was AIDS, just on the rolls of that charity. I have no idea what the total number of new weekly cases was in the 1990s.

I liked working at that place because the premise of the charity was "help to the end." The organization collected fresh produce and healthy packaged foods to deliver to AIDS sufferers. The gentle woman who oversaw the kitchen showed me how to fill a paper grocery bag from a fixed list of foods so that each client would receive the gift of a healthy, balanced diet for a few days. The celery stayed in my mind. Fresh, crisp celery. One big bag per customer, set it on top of the whole-grain pasta. Most of the clients got a grocery bag or two every week on Thursdays. I was not able to deliver any groceries and did not meet the clients. The reason was privacy, and it seemed fair to me.

A man who was volunteering the same day in 1996 told me that he lived in the city, had been able to retire early (he looked sixty-ish) and came to help a couple of days a week for four hours at a time. He didn't say much about why, just that he wanted to help. He liked what he was doing, and that was enough. We were there two days after Christmas. He didn't say anything about that either.

It's time for me to think that way again. I am not busy with my own busyness because I have to be. I am doing what I choose to do. I start my stuff early (most of the time) and work late. I meet the obligations I have accepted. I don't seek out the joy that comes from helping the helpless. My priority list is filled with what I want to do for myself. I miss that joy.

Squamous should be a state of mind

The ability of my mind to absorb input is something like the ability of broadband to pass along packets of data. What surprises me sometimes is just how much input I can stuff into my mind in real time. Right now I'm listening to the air conditioning fan, the trucks and earthmovers across the street, the occasional shout of a person, and the click of these keys as I type. I'm watching the screen and shielding my eyes from the glare that reflects off the screen from the light of the window. I'm noticing that the Publish Post button is not the same shade of orange as the "B" logo up above, and the one-page calendar I taped to the wall for this week is moving slightly in the breeze from the open window. I can feel the emotional weight of an email from an angry student. My multi-tasking brain is still contemplating a DVD I watched earlier about famous playwrights and dividing it up into useful portions for class. The part of my mind that too often desires food says that soon I will be able to excuse myself and go in search of grazing. My mouth responds with a tautening of muscles and some drooling that I wish would not happen. I suppose that's part of God's design--the human response to food. A student named Jen, who was my student last year and works across the hall, walks by a couple of times. Even though I see her for a millisecond as she flashes by, I know who it is. I don't even look up. The memory of the lawn not yet mowed at home floods my top-level consciousness, because a hedge trimmer sound started up outside. The broadband pipe isn't full yet.

Another time in the day, triggers may go off that flood my mind with emotions. As the emotions flow, my boss may walk by, and even though he doesn't stop, I remember several duties are coming up that he will require of me. Today, each day, I feel the pressure of the time. The time in today fills quickly; it is already promised to so many and so much. It begins to bulge and sag. The pounds-per-square-inch start to show in the veins on my neck.

Tuesday, July 21

Today is the randomest of random days to begin a blog. It's Tuesday, and I stayed up unusually late last night, so I'm not feeling at all creative or spunky. I did get to the office only 35 minutes late, and the one appointment I had did not show up. By 8:40 a.m., I was picking up my friend Carol from her house so we could go to Starbucks for a free pastry. Yes, it's "free pastry" day. Fortunately she printed two copies of the coupon that's required; I would have been out of luck otherwise.

For once, I prescribed for myself a regular mocha instead of decaf, because I'm tired and draggy. Caffeine intake is one of those oddly taboo subjects for past Adventist generations. My state of mind is that it's not good for you and something to be taken as infrequently as Tylenol, which I limit to extreme headache situations a few times a year. In addition, it's not a salvation issue in my mind and falls in the realm of cultural oddities in Adventism. Ellen White didn't set up any particular substances as cultural icons, not in the way we have allowed them to become such. If only we were as averse to refined sugar as we are to caffeine. Tea and coffee as daily or hourly drinks :) are certainly a detriment to one's overall health. Are they more or less detrimental than daily or hourly sugar or snack foods? Should they be more or less taboo than cheesecake and Little Debbies? Judging by the number of overweight Adventists, I would say the beverages should be no more taboo than the junk foods. And perhaps no less.

Is a constantly running HVAC fan a cheap alternative to a "white noise" device? I go back and forth on this as I listen to the big, loud fan running 24/7 outside my office door.

My late-morning appointment was with a professor on campus who became the innocent victim of an assumption I made during the first summer session that a student she had previously spoken to was telling me the truth. The student was telling a straight-out lie about this other professor. One likes to assume the best about people, and I failed in two ways. I failed to critically evaluate what was being said to me, and I failed to consider the possibility that the other professor was innocent. Today I talked to the professor for an hour about what happened. She was very gracious and kind. I learned from her that one has to make each and every mistake in the field of education at least once, and often many times, because new situations arise that one has never seen before. She showed me by her attitude and demeanor that she has learned from tough experience and is filled with the Holy Spirit. I have the promised Holy Spirit, and now I have to go through some of those tough experiences.