Don Draper is the Devil

Don Draper is the Devil.

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A World Without Poetry. A World Filled with Hate.

Without poetry , there would be no prayers to say over the dead.

Without poetry there would be no love to coax lonely souls to union,

no passion to wrestle life from Nothingness;

no mother to protect the helpless seeds of Humanity,

no children to teach us mercy, and no soul to yearn.

Without poetry, soldiers and sailors would have no home to return to,

no markers for their graves.

Hate.

Hate is simple: it is a parent who eats its young.

Hate takes many forms and war is the grandest of all.

But war isn’t always hateful. Sometimes it is as naturally inevitable as a thunderstorm.

When war comes, meet it with humility and shame, if you must meet it at all.

And win.

But remember this: Protesting against a war is the only way humanity can save itself from killing istelf.

What would the world be like if no one protested against war, if no one questioned the “right” or “need” to kill another human being (regardless of how crazed that other human may be)?

The anti-war protestor is man’s best part struggling against the worst in himself. The pacifist is the mirrored image of the warrior. Without the warrior, humankind would be unable to protect itself. Without the pacifist, humankind would be unable to stop itself.

The protest against hate, war, and death is the kernel of conscience we have that will save us from extinction.

Without protest against war, there will never be any reason to stop war. We would all die from the hate that lurks just beneath this thin-skinned facade we call civilization were it not for the pacifist.

If we must fight wars, make sure they are fought against the worst in ourselves.

Without protest, the flower buried beneath the rock would never find the poetry of the sun; the seed of hope would forever be crushed under the heel of Hate’s eternally marching boots.

Rebecca Rose Came from a Magic Twinkle Star

When I ask my 28-month-old daughter, Rebecca Rose, “Where did you come from?” she answers, “Tennessee.” I guess that’s a perfectly fine answer for now, but there are times when she falls asleep on mommy and daddy’s “big bed” that I will lie down next to her and stare at her and still can’t believe I had any part in the creation of this incredible being.

Or sometimes, I’ll be in the living room and she’ll be by herself in her bedroom, singing away like a little bird on a spring morning, and I wonder, “Who is this singing? Where did she come from? … Tennessee?”

No…

She came from a far-off star. She had existed there as some form of celestial energy since the begining of time. And one night when I and my wife, Kathleen, were out gazing at the heavens, little Rebecca Rose’s star shined in both our eyes and twinkled a magic twinkle. At that precious instant she came to Earth where she lived inside her mother until it was time for her to reveal herself.

I was one of those goofy dads who sang to my child in her mother’s womb. We knew we would call her Rebecca Rose if she was a girl. But a boy’s name was still being debated. Kathleen said she wanted to name him after me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do that. So Kathleen said jokingly, that if we had a boy, he was going to be named after a once-popular doll called Rainbow Brite.

In no time, however, we came to call our yet-to-be born child, Rainbow. And I would lie next to Kathleen’s tummy and sing a children’s song: “Rainbow, come out and play with me…”

And finally, she did.

Though I was a witness and a willing “assistant,” th ebirth experience was between my wife and daughter and itwa sn’t easy for either of them. In a different time or a different place, they both may have been in danger. But Kathleen’s spirit and modern medicine prevailed. Rebecca Rose came into the world weighing ten pounds, three oucnes, and just two minutes before Valentine’s Day, 1989.

While Kathleen lay recuperating, I held Rebecca’s hand as nurses pricked her toe for a blood sample. She howld but barely cried. She’s never been much of a crier. This may sound contribed but I truly do remember thinking to myself: “I wish that were the only pain you were going to feel in your life.”

In the 28 months Rebecca has been with us, we continue to be amazed at how fortuante we are. She is a happy child, filled with curiosity. She learns quickly and we need use only a modest amount of discipline. She is also a teacher, an organizer, and quite a performer. I know much of her personality comes from her mother who tries to make every day special. They have a very strong relationship, which I hope continues for the rest of their lives.

As for now, I’m the one who says “no” most of the time. I think I’m overly protective and try to anticipate every tumble and scrape she may encounter. And I guess I’ve always had a problem with responding to authority figures and she is always¬†bossing around. So that’s another reason I tell her “no.”

I like it that she’s tough and independent. But she is also very sweet and loving. Soon after she was born, I initiated a three-way “group-hug” with our small family. She has now taken up that ritual as her own. That is one command of her’s I will always obey.

I also appear to be the only person who can put her to sleep at bedtime. Part of it may be because I’m her authority figure. Maybe it’s because she has so much fun with Kathleen, she wants to stay awake when Mommy tries to get her to sleep. Every day is full of excitement for her and it is very hard for her to calm down at night.

I don’t really tell her bedtime stories. I more or less talk with her. We talk about what she did all day. We talk about what she is going to do tomorrow.

Then I sing her a couple of bedtime songs that only I know and won’t share with anyone but her. I even changed the closing lines of “Rock-a-bye, baby” because the imagery of “down will come baby, cradle and all” seems too cruel.

In the morning, Rebecca Rose wakes up and summons me with a loud “Daddy!” I’m not sure why. Maybe she figures that since I’m the one who put her in the bed, I should be the one that gets her out.

But once she is out, she’s off and running again–until the day is through and it’s once more time for bed.

I’ve come to think of bedtime as our special time. As we chat I am still filled with awe. I hope it will always be so. But somewhere in my mind and my heart I know there will come a time when she won’t want or need daddy to help her fall asleep. She will experience lonely nights when everything she wants eludes her. She will experience the excitement adults feel when they realize they are on the verge of good fortune. She will wonder if she will ever find love. And when she does, she will wonder how long it will last. And when she realizes that true love is forever, she will hear her own songs as she falls asleep. And daddy’s secret lullabies will be only a faint memory.