Wednesday, February 23, 2022


 SPORTS – BEAUTIFULLY USELESS

 

Imagine swooping through the air catching a ball with one hand, and at that moment passing it to another to score a try, a touch-down, or a basket. Can you feel the exhilaration of sharing a victory, overcoming a stubborn adversary, conquering your greatest fears? The balletic skills and crafts of sports built over the years display a proficiency that defies all categories, empowering the participant providing awe and vicarious pleasure to the spectator and admiration and praise from the ancients who tabulate such feats. Yet none of the beauty, knowledge, courage, and fortitude on display during sporting events are of any significant value in the world of sports. Indeed, all the artistic, athletic activities paraded in front of fans and observers alike are secondary, misnomers, cannon-fodder for the pundits, cheerleaders, and gamblers. The all-encompassing obsession with winning sidelines the magnificent beauty of sporting athletes' feats. Or, more pertinently, not losing. 

 

There was a time when sports were a valuable development for youthful expression and growth. A time when a person's internal competition, momentarily substituted an external competition, became a teaching tool for objectivity, clarity, and the impetus to move forward and multiply. To create for the betterment of the community, through individual endeavor, to hone in on the youthful days of playing sports and create memories of sacrifice and effort that would be a storehouse for the future, when childhood was no longer an excuse. For it was playing that captured the muscles and spirit of youth and taught the mind and body to work together for a common cause." play" made it possible to give one's all while sometimes applying brutal effort to win. It was "play" that joined all the combatants at the end of the contest in the companionship of grace and effort. Of course, an effort was not always enough. There was also luck, the turn of the dice, the fall of the coin, the mistake by a player or a referee. But all these variants became a part of "play." 

 

Then, society’s need for competition took over. The spectacle of winning and losing became more important than teaching social skills through "play." Competition extended the "play" into a lifetime of adolescent fantasies. Competition replaced value with expediency, the ability to suppress one's true love of a game with a crass dedication to 'winning at all costs.' And then the gamblers took over, offering long odds for fans' idolatry and encouraging fans to pay for their addiction through meaningless patronage that soon emptied their pockets and destroyed their families with rage, anger, and betrayal. Competition soon mirrored our economic and political system of savage practices to keep those with little or no access to economic or political power at bay. While the powerful recklessly change the rules to suit themselves, even as they undermine their adversaries in the name of survival of the fitness. 

 

We have come now to accept competition as the primary measurement of humankind's progress. Once, pleasurable pastimes Cooking, Gardening, and Beauty are now defiled. We once indulged in such self-expressive activities as cooking, gardening, and beauty and appreciated them in the eye of the beholder. But now, they are measured in the money they attract, the followers they generate, and the paid publicists who promote them. What is beauty, a good meal, a beautiful garden? There is no consensus today outside of competition, money, and manipulation. 

 

Sports is nothing more than a gambler's den. Sports are divorced from their service to youth and society. Sports gambling is simply turning money from one greedy hand to another. And what is gambling? Nothing but a deluded belief in a winner as unique because of the role of a dice, the pull of a handle, or the purchase of a ticket? In none of these situations does the human in their being participate. The gambler leases his life to the abstract belief that her passion for winning will align with the cards, dice, roulette wheel, or favored team and reward them with money. An abstract commodity that is subject to taxes, debt, envy, jealousy, loss, and theft, and nowhere does it confirm that the winner is unique in any way. 

 

Is competition now the judge of progress? Was it unleashed competition and energy that pulled humankind out of the mud of poverty and elevated the human condition to the luxury of freedom? Even a cursory view of history undermines that myth. From man's earliest days, slavery created wealth and progress. There have certainly been feats of ingenuity, like the Dutch clearing the swamplands of the Netherlands, the Israelis turning the desert into farmlands, and in recent years the Chinese pulling half a billion people out of poverty. And there are numerous other collective and individual feats worthy of acknowledgment. Equally, there are disasters. The dustbowl of the American southwest. The slaughter of millions of people in WW1 and WW2. Wars of profound uselessness. The first three are examples of cooperation—the last three of competition. 

 

Sports today is a conduit through which billions of dollars are circulated, primarily between the hands of the same groups of people. The sports players who put their lives on the line will pay dearly for the rest of their lives, for the 'privilege' of entertaining their fans, with horrendous physical and mental damage—the pressure to perform begins at elementary school. Once identified as having the essential attributes of sporting prowess, the child is on a track to a one-dimensional life. All other interests in everyday life become sublimated to this primary goal. "Play" is abandoned—everyday preparations for competition and the elusive hum of success proceed with designed exercises and diets directed at the smell of success. And what is success? It changes daily, weekly, yearly. Invariably primary goals are implanted in the child's mind by parents and coaches. But the child is still living in the present! The child is still too young to understand what one year consists of, let alone five or ten years into the future—a dream of the Super Bowl, the Olympics, or the World Cup. A slow-moving fixated passion is germinated and built-up day by day. Soon the child has no identity outside of the goals set for the following day and a distant, elusive future. And what if she should falter? How do her parents and coaches, who have put so much into her, react? Does she dare to fail?

 

In all major sports, the pool of prospective candidates is limitless. Children from around the world long to become sporting icons. They believe they will enjoy the attraction of money and associated fame once they have climbed the "greasy pole of success." That is the carrot. The whip is the millions of 'Losers" left behind to rue the day of that missed pass, failed tackle, burst liver, broken jaw, hyperextended knee, the racism/sexism of the coach, referee, agent, manager, and fraudulent business partner. 

 

The competitive edge enters darker zones when the economics of sporting teams are fully exposed. Players are bought and sold like commodities to satisfy corporate and personal bank balances, revealing the dehumanizing habit of treating human beings as chattel. Today we see more women entering the professional sporting ranks, and on a superficial level, it is all good. Except women don't get paid the same as men, irrespective of the fact that most top-rated men's sports teams do not pay their way. But the given argument is that women do not generate equal money! Well, nor do men! Women are demanding to become hostages to the money-making machine of the gambler's world, just like men, in the belief that parity with other enslaved people will make them free (?)They may believe they are liberating their role in society. Still, in truth, they've just exchanged their role for a more rabid, hungry, and desperate condition of exploitation that attracts even more envy, hatred, and despicable treatment. In a world with no respect for people as human beings, it makes no difference what your gender, race, or ethnic origins are when you are nothing more than chess pieces manipulated by vipers in pursuit of money and power. 

 

Individual and collective dreams run out of steam when a fully conscious human being realizes they are nothing more than pawns in an elaborate game of exploitation. Yet, for many, the promise of sports is the hope and belief that they will improve their bank balance and redress the fault their society made by denying them honorable and legitimate avenues and choices to prosper and grow their families. Thus, competition is not between equal participants but between desperate humans denied all other choices but to throw their bodies and souls on the ashes of poor fortune and hope they make the grade. And once-famous such stars become even more enamored of their luck and skills, knowing all too well that those who they left behind are standing in the shadows ready to plunge a knife into their back if they should falter or bring the fantasy of sports exploitation to the light of day. That was Colin Kaepernick's unforgivable sin.

 

Finally, the highlight of the beautiful uselessness of sports is borne by the fact that none of the skills developed to put a ball in a net, over a line, in a hole, or a basket, provide the individual with any life skills or abilities to decern between right or wrong, good, or bad, love or hate, or between value and fraud. Professional sportspeople fail to advance to emotional adulthood because they are caged in adolescent emotions that rule their lives. Winning and losing is their only obsession. Their only meaningful existence, as human beings, is predicated on the rules of coaches, referees, and their management cabals. The moment a game is won or lost, the ability to enjoy it evaporates. To marvel at the effort expended by the athlete, the doubts overcome, the renewed faith in one's abilities. The proficiency of their labor is of nothing. The only recourse is onto the successive win or loss. It is continuing the merry-go-round of tomorrow, which never comes. It is living in a vacuum where all true human feelings are suppressed. It is becoming automated with a public persona and a private disconnect. It is living a schizophrenia existence showered with money and notoriety but lost to one's soul. Sport is a beautifully useless enterprise desired by all and fated to destroy the few who reach the heights of "suckcess." But the only truly liberating activity is to be yourself and enjoy being unique without having to sell yourself as a prostitute to prove it.

 

 

 

Monday, February 14, 2022


PROLOGUE 

In every life there is a defining moment. A moment that tells us we are alive, and who we are. It is a moment that informs us we are here on planet earth, basking in the inexplicable contradiction of human life. For all of us there is an inherent feeling, thought, a physical trigger, an ache, smell, touch, and taste within that informs us that our time is NOW! 

That moment happens sometimes when we are blind to our own existence. Often, we don’t even know or understand that moment until days, weeks, months and even years later. Yet we can all feel it. We look back on it. Plant our feet in the mud of it, breath in the vibrant air of it. And acknowledge its realness!  It’s a time of wonder and amazement that flood our senses. Wonder that transforms us into our life in the present. Life that confronts the predicted dramas and disasters that surround us. Amazement, that we made it through such disasters, which seemed insurmountable at the time, and yet helped us towards fashioning a life worth living, an existence we’re so thankful to live.

Perhaps this is what we mean by a God, or the Divine or the randomness of life in pursuit of life’s fulfilment? This magic/randomness that selected us from millions of seeds, flushed through watery channels to connect, and make union with one of countless millions of waiting eggs – in animated suspension – to burst into an unknowing world of human’s actions of becoming realness, afflicted with the habit of destroying ourselves. This life, this effort of becoming that was chosen for us! Or did we choose it?

I think we can all acknowledge now, with all the efforts of history, science, and the numerous wars that have retired out ancestors to shadowy graves, that we are unique! That we are all a unique expression of life’s fascination with itself. This may still confuse the barbarians amongst us, who seek spiritual dominion, and physical hegemony, but from the perspective of 4 billion years, it doesn’t really matter what ‘opinions’ we have. Gravity, and oxygen, don’t require our ‘beliefs.’  I think we can accept, though not agree, that the history of human life on planet earth has demonstrated, echoed by the billions of humans who’ve passed through this planet – never to return – that each of us leaves a presence in the hearts of those we leave behind. Once dead, whether good, bad, or evil we all become neutral.

Tuesday, February 1, 2022

                                                      

      serendipty - new poems - Ian C. dawkins Moore



THE HAPPY POET  

I am a happy poet

my moods go up and down

and every time my wife complains

I try not to get too down.

 

I am a happy poet

I was stamped as such at birth,

I sometimes forget the joy of song

'til your face breaks out in mirth.

 

I am a happy poet

I sometimes forget my place,

‘cause poets never make a bean

but we all have a happy face.

 

I am a happy poet

each day a new refrain

friends ask me how I do it

I tell them it’s in my brain.

 

 I am a happy poet

cause all I do is rhyme

I pick the verse by myself

it’s the way I spend my time.

 

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09PHHH5GT

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1122417

Monday, October 12, 2020

                

                                                                  BUY FROM AMAZON.COM  

                     Ian C. Dawkins Moore is a Sufi-Zen raconteur whose charming English accent and unusual life credentials defy definition or culture. He looks and acts as if would be content with a rum and coke in his hand sitting on a beach anywhere.

 

                He exists on the edges of culture and between the pages of history. He fits in everywhere and nowhere. He long ago chose the culture he dances too. He fits in wherever he wishes to place his intentions. He's a dedicated researcher, writer, poet, and transcendental commentator of the NOW of life, and a chronicler of the IS-ness of America.  

 

                He has led the life of a traveler, a scholar, an antique dealer, a poet, an oil driller, an engineer, a teacher, a life coach, a janitor, a citizen, and an outcast.

 

                This work is an exploration of the art of writing about the NOW. Experimentation with context, and content that is full of insights into mankind and the challenges of the Human condition. Ian’s passion for mastering his craft is a pleasure he shares with the public and his friends.

                                                                         Gary C. Smith



  BUY ALL THESE BOOKS ON AMAZON.COM

  OTHER BOOKS BY I.C. DAWKINS MOORE

     Hawaiian Hangover – a novella

 Blame it on Reno – a short story & screenplay

The Alchemy of Happiness – a short story

 Maili Beach – a novella

 You Can’t Push a String Up a Hill - essays

 The Rituals for Success – a self-help book

 The Arrival: how to survive in America – essays

 Divine Providence – short stories and poems

 American Charity – a novel

 The Meaning of Life – short stories and poems

 Return to My Native Land –travels in West Africa

 Open Heart Poetry – the poetry of love & loss

 America: Culture Shock – essays on culture

Great Black Innovators & the Problem-Solving Process

Afro-Muse: The Evolution of African-American Music

Culture Shock Essays – essays of cross-cultural travels

 https://www.youtube.com/results?search_      query=Ian+C.+Dawkins+Moore

    Ian C. Dawkins Moore has survived an English boarding school, the jock world of football hooliganism, hitch-hiking across the Sahara Desert, Islamic redemption in West Africa; the two-tone culture of American racism, and he can still see the funny side of life—enjoy 

Thursday, February 7, 2019

WHY WE DESERVE TRUMP

            If there is any amazement left in us Americans about why we deserve President Donald Trump it can only come from our inability to reflect on who we, as a nation, really are?
             The accepted reality that the media, in its use of fear and loathing to make money, continues to encourage Trump’s adolescent antics reveals the pubescent nature of the media and why we should abandon its false claims and distorted concoctions of reality and stop behaving as we think we should, and be who we really are.  

            But given, that we are addicted to fear and gloom, let’s look at how our opiate addiction works:
            First, we voted for Trump. This may be depressing to Hilary’s groupies, but the fact of the matter is that in a democracy, even one so dominated by private money, whoever wins the electoral college, wins the job. When less than 60% of the population vote and our elected officials are supported by less than 40% of the nation, it’s no wonder that we are led by morons, because we are the morons that put them there.
            Secondly, we are a competitive, forward-looking self-centered nation of disparate and desperate people all looking for one thing – money. Our President teaches us to ‘fake it ‘til we make it’ yet he continues to ‘fake it’ even when he’s ‘made it’...to be continued...

https://www.amazon.com/Ian-C.-Dawkins-Moore/e/B003HETPZ2






Tuesday, February 5, 2019

MAILI BEACH

A man is buried alive on a Hawaiian beach watched by a shadowy figure.
Karl tries to find out what happened to his cousin during a trip home to his father’s funeral and discovers his family is members of the “The Company”.
Karl’s mother gives him a family heirloom; a case full of illegally acquired land deeds.
Karl decides with the help of his friend Jake to make some money for himself by selling the land deeds.
Things don’t go according to plan… 

THE PROLOGUE
The plucked bright sounds of a Hawaiian slack guitar peppered the night air between the loud breaking waves that pounded the hushed beach sands. The golden sunset over Maili Beach suddenly turned black. The tropical night’s yellow moon, high in the dark sky, shone down on a section of beach and a six-foot-by-three-foot trench in the sand. The hands and arms of a man were visible as he flailed around struggling for air. Chocking sounds came out from his sand-filled mouth. The man grabbed handfuls of sand, grasping frantically at the shadowy figure of two feet in thong sandals which stood impassively by. Two heavyset Polynesian men heaped sand over the body of the man being buried alive. They struck at his hands and arms with their spades to keep him under.
It took only fifteen minutes of muffled screams for the man to suffocate to death. The two men waited, wiping the sweat off their brows. The thong sandaled feet shuffled away from the death- scene through the soft sand content that the problem had been solved. One of the thugs pulled two beers from a bag which they sipped until the final desperate sounds of the buried man ceased. When they finished, they pulled guns from their belts and fired two shots each into the sand. The echoing sound of the shots was lost in the roar of the incoming pounding waves. The slack guitar was instantly drowned out but could be heard faintly returning as the receding waves swallowed up the hush of the ocean. The two thugs smoothed over the sand, picked up their discarded shirts and bags and sauntered down the beach towards the holiday lights and the slack guitar sounds coming from a house at Maili Beach Point. 

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1729721311/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i1

BLAME IT ON RENO

BLAME IT ON RENO
The Story
  
1- THE CRAZIEST STORY EVER TOLD     

            Mama Carlotta would tell anyone who would listen about the craziest story she’d ever heard. It was crazier than the time Terrence decided to divorce his wife after he’d been fooling around with another woman in town for over a year. Mama Carlotta had gone with Terrence to the divorce court for moral support. She sat in the back of the court imbibing the dry odor of aged mahogany paneled walls and the musty smells of sodden disappointments.
            Terrence’s’ wife, Sybil, came into the courtroom dressed in a faded flower print dress; a button-less lint speckled dirty brown woolen sweater which hung off her shoulders; and black disheveled matted hair. She looked like she’d been dragged through the streets. For Terrence it was his big day in court. He was dressed in a new black leather jacket, pressed denim blue jeans and a white silk shirt. He looked fabulous.
            Sybil’s Attorney had no trouble getting Terrence’s wages garnished for the next ten years, until his two kids graduated from high school, while providing Sybil with a expense account which she'd never had when married.

            Terrence didn’t help himself by attempting to be his own Attorney. Even the judge had a momentary lapse of legal etiquette when his eyes welled up in tears as he performed legal castration on Terrence...

BLame it on reno
The Screenplay


FADE UP:

Ext. A California Valley town   day

NORM & STEVE put suitcases into a red convertible Chevrolet, circa 1975.

They get into the car, talking; Steve drives and does most of the talking.

                                   STEVE
                                             Norm, what you’ve got to
                                             understand is that women are
                                             like dogs, they’ll stay with
                                             the one who feeds them the most.
                                                (pause)
Steve negotiates the driveway exit

                          Now I’m not saying your Anna’s
like that, nor my Rosa, but you’ve
got to understand that marriage
is just like having a pet.
Provide just enough goodies
and they’ll stay obedient and
happy.

                                                NORM
Well this is the most important
day of my life; I don’t care
what you say. Anna and me are
different. We understand each
other and each other’s ways.
                        STEVE 
                                     (mockingly)                   
Yeah, Yeah, Norm, sure you do,
and you’re gonna have cuddly
understanding kids too!

Steve winks at Norm, who looks at him a little hurt
           
Don’t take it to heart. You know
how I am. I’m not the marrying
kind, so what do I know?

                                                NORM
                                     (worried)                         
Are you sure you packed my tuxedo?

                                                STEVE
                        Sure, sure, don’t sweat it man.
                        I’ve arranged everything; the
                        Rivera Hotel in Reno; the Tom
                        Jones tickets and an appointment
at the Crystal Chapel at twelve tonight.

                                                            NORM
                                                (Relieved, but still worried)
                        It seems like I’ve known Anna
                        all my life. I can remember the
                        first time I met her. In fact,
                        you introduced us.

Steve waves his hand in acknowledgment.

                                                            STEVE
                                  That’s part of your sorry
history now, my friend, because
tonight you’ll be starting a new
life together.

He finishes with a flurry as he pulled up outside
Mama Carlotta’s Hair Salon.

INT. Mama CARLOTTA’S HAIR SALON   day

Bright lights and about 10 hysterical women all excited over Anna getting married.

ROSA (ANNA’S friend) is helping Anna with her clothes, while Anna looks in the mirror and studies her hair and keeps asking

                                                            ANNA
                        Is it all right…I mean does it
make me look like a dike or
something? I mean… I don’t mean
anything against you Doris, love,
but doesn’t it look kinda flat…?

                                                                        ROSA
                        No, darling, it looks great, your
                                       Norm’s gonna love it. Na it don’t
                                       look like no helmet head...

                                                                  ANNA
                         I’ didn’t say helmet head. See,
                         I knew it wasn’t gonna look right.
                         You’re all laughing at me.