Saturday, November 19, 2016

The Red Bull of Catalhôyûa ((Dr. Hightower’s Stone Age Settlement) (Bos primigenius))

The Neolithic Red Bull of Catalhôyûa (9000 B.C.)

Chapter One

“The Red Bull,” said Dr. Hightower, of the Louisiana Space Center, and Anthropological Research Development Department, at his archeological site in Asia Minor, speaking to his colleges, updating him on his discovery “was the size of a Blue Whale, some eighty feet long. Surely this creature to its inhabitants of that region, inspired awe; matter-of-fact, we know this for a fact, for the beast died without any wounds.  It arrived in the Neolithic period of mankind (9,000 to 11,000 B.C., thereabouts). We know it devoured all the domestic plants around Catalhôyûa, in Turkey.  The beast was reddish-brown, a rustic color, with black spots, long tail, an apparent outward snout, and a long hanging tongue, its feet hoofed, and its horns some six feet long.  It is the only one of its kind. It would seem, the men and women of this region carried out rituals to this beast, but feed the bull per near starved them to death, and then the beast started feasting on them. It dominated—for the most part—the realm.”
       So was this Dr. Hightower’s position on the discovery, and how he inferred that the people of this realm, and reasoned on this life form beast.
       The inhabitants proclaimed legends to the Red Bull, that it survived 1200-years in the region. And the analysts who analyzed its bone and teeth, at the Research Development Department, simply concluded, its age, and indicated because of having no wounds, could not tell of its demise, nor how this story ended for the men and women of this race, although all indications were they are a bold, and powerful people.  But Dr. Hightower, smiled and said, “Be at the conference meeting tomorrow, I will unfold the mystery.”

Chapter Two

Before we go onto Dr. Hightower’s unfolding of the mystery of the death of this huge beast, let me update the reader on the Catalhôyûa, civilization. Their houses were built in a manner that suggest that defense was the reason for their peculiar way. But what enemy did they have other than at times the very bull they revered. Let me explain:  their dwelling had a sole entry through the roof, and their dwellings were superimposed buildings on a plain of some thirty acres, or less. One structure on top of another. Flat roofs, for his was also their walkway. Each house having a wooden stairway. Explained, Dr. Hightower to his students, facility, and workmen and women that were at the archeological site: “The past, the present and the future behaves in a certain manner. And to come to my conclusion, one must study all the factors involved. Having said this, when heat arrives it changes the future, it is different from the past. If there is no friction—example, a pendulum can swing forever, this friction heats, at the same time loses energy, and slows down. Again let me say: friction produces heat. This is where the past, present, and future comes into play, only when there is heat.  A fundamental phenomenon took place back then.  But let me continue, heat passes from things that are hotter to things that are colder. Hot to cold.  The reasons the Red Bull died, was because of a cold spell, the beast lost all its heat. If that makes sense. If you are asking ‘why this is so’ let me say: a quickly moving atom of the hot substance (in this case the bull) collided with a cold spell, and lost its energy, rather than vice versa. Basic physics, what is heat? Heat is atoms and/or molecules, in a cluster that moves quickly. Cold to the contrary, those atoms and/or molecules move slower. We could end this mystery right here and now this this, but … (a pause) to repeat myself, hot moves to cold. Example, put a cold spoon in hot soup, it becomes hot. In a like manner on a cold day we lose body heat, and become cold. Thus the red Bull died in just this manner. First it had no wounds, and there was a long, very long cold spell and no food available for an extended period of time, and the inhabitants themselves, moved, migrated to a warmer climate. Although for a while it became cannibalistic, in that ate age human flesh, carcasses, but when the region was unpeopled for generations, it died on its own.  The inhabitants revered the beast, like Americans do the bald eagle. Although they used spears to keep it at a distance.”

Chapter Three

       Dr. Hightower, could hear the endeavoring people in the background talking to one another, in an extraordinary tone of voices, asking “How on earth did just one specie come to exist?”  It was very painful to listen to, for honestly he knew or had an idea, and it wasn’t at all keen. Said Dr. Hightower, “The full legend goes something like this: that the Red Bull, came from a miniature world or moon, the sphere that dropped off this beast was perfectly round, in diameter, when it approached the ground a circular trapdoor opened in the bottom, several creatures descended forthwith and proceeded to their new environment, at which time they were perhaps four feet in height, three died of rubbles of insect bites, three vanished, or disappeared from human observation, and one survived. So the legend goes.”


Thursday, November 17, 2016

About the Author: Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

About the Author:
Dr. Dennis L. Siluk

International, Latin American Award for Poet
Laureate in 21-Latin American Countries;
by CIHLLD (29 June 2013)

Dr. Dennis L. Siluk’s has published 72-International Books; 28-National, Latin American chapbooks on Peruvian customs and heritage, and eight international books on Peruvian Culture (that can be seen on B& or or He is a poet since twelve years old, a writer, Psychologist, Ordained Minister, Decorated Veteran from the Vietnam War, Doctor in Arts and Education, and Doctor Honoris Causa from the National University of Central Peru, UNCP. He was nominated Poet Laureate in Peru. One of his books, “The Galilean”, took Honorable Mention at the 2016 Paris Book Festival and received an award from the Congress of Peru, for his cultural writings.  He is originally from St. Paul, Minnesota, and lives with his wife Rosa, in Lima, Peru and High up in the Andes, in Huancayo, also, in Minnesota.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Pauper, the Mutt

Pauper, eating his Steak! 11-18-2014

The dog, I have nicknamed Pauper, whom is a stray dog in the neighborhood: a half-pint size German Shepard Mutt!  My wife and I, more wife than I, have grown to care for him, perhaps even grown to love him in a mutt kind of way! My wife has taken him on one occasion to the veterinarians because of a wounded foot, thereafter for a shampoo, —save, he needed it long before he got it: no longer smelling like a mutt, rather more like Lysol. And thereafter again, given the mutt those expensive shots…hopefully, cleaning out his system of any disease, and so forth… We tried to restore him to civilization, bring him into our home and treating him near like an equal, but he cried and whimpered… Can you picture a German Police Mutt, crying and whimpering? It’s hard being a Vietnam Veteran watching that, so I set him free to go back and roam his old turf. Well, what can one say—to each his own, even a dog has the right to choose—so I feel—his destiny! Anyhow, the essence of this story is this: we’ve fed him per near daily, for more than a few months now, a few times a day! Hamburger for lunch, and a steak for dinner, water for his thirst, and some hard-bread-crackers, mixing the dog food with hamburger sometimes… Had I not mixed it with the hamburger, he’d not have eaten the dog food, he’s highbrow, believe it or not— yes, even a mutt, a stiff-nicked mutt, can be costly, and this Peruvian Mutt, is high maintenance… “I will not eat anything else at your house, without protein in it!” his eyes have told me, time and again, and my wife seems to identify with him; or is it with me and him? As if he is on a kosher diet.  But he does put on quite the show, and watching him eat is a treat! He approaches so dandy like: cool as a ripe and chilled cucumber. Wiggling that long mutt tail, not tramp style, but kingly, as if somewhere along the line, he was descended from King Arthur’s court (as they say: elitist). I call him, the roustabout, he has three neighborhoods he searches out I do believe; and that look on his face says:  if you don’t serve me, I got plan B, and C, already in place (sounds like my son-in-law!) Anyhow, suddenly the dog sees the steak in my hand, for him surely the choicest slab of protein in the neighborhood— in all three neighborhoods! With a swift dart of his perturbing—dog face, and strong four-year old saber teeth, he dives at the steak, grabs hold of the steak, clutching it, as if it might grow legs and run away; I have to watch my fingers and his teeth closely, lest I lose them. My reflexes are not as good as they used to be, nor my eyesight!  The steak, now in his mouth, his head raised, ere, before he devours it: exultantly he throws the stack every-which-way but loose—like an alligator—as  if to tenderize it before the big moment! Then snap, it is in two pieces, one hanging out of his mouth, the other on the floor, of our den— this is not the end! He gives no more attention to my wife and I, he is in a LSD, kind of zone … happy as three cockroaches, on top of a hill of sugar! He chews madly, as if someone might come along and take it away; there is a bigger dog next door, called Moro, who likes steaks also… My steaks that I give to Pauper that is the main reason he comes into our den, to eat the steak in secret, lest he lose it to Moro— the beast! And until the first of the halves disappears down his long slippery throat, he is not content— Eaten with such relish and determination, he now goes for the second portion, a little less hurried, yet a little worried. Crack-head, the Priest’s dog across the street might appear, he likes Pauper’s hamburger, I’ve nicknamed the Priest’s dog Crack-Head, because he keeps falling off the Preacher’s rooftop, and he’s bitter, and I have learned from experience, to only refer to him as Crack-head when he’s not looking... He can read my lips, and brother when I call him that name, he gives me the: I’ll eat you look! He too, is similar to Moro the Beast! Does Pauper, have a concept of what he is eating (surely not what it costs)? He does! How do I know? He continues in his way in the matter of establishing long term contact with this house, especially marinating my wife with his droopy sad eyes, knowing I’m perhaps a war veteran, he is cautious with his peas and cues… Once he is full, he tramps off to Cockroach Villa, wherever that is! But since that last shampoo he got, he has returned to smelling like the old Mutt of the neighborhood once again and every time I feed him, I got to take a shower thereafter! I told my wife this is getting to be too time consuming! If not costly, for a dog that won’t even watch the perimeter of our house, or for that matter, keep us company at night!

Written 11-18-2014 (No: 4609) Reedited 11-2016

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Consorting with a Dream (11-15-2016/wee hours of the morning)

The Dream:  “I had a dream last night, I’m 69 years old, it was of a sports car, and motorcycle I once owned, although these two items were different than the original ones I once owned about 20-years ago. A friend and I were on the way to a lakeshore area, where I suppose I own land at one time, to which I did, some 300-miles from where I lived. Perhaps all symbols within this dream. I don’t remember who drove what vehicle, but I got confused on what highway to take so we stopped at a motel, and having got lost somehow he got to bothering me, more trouble than he’s worth—I figured, so I shooed him away.  Now I’m in a city in-between the lakeshore land, the motel, and my home; I’m, in some little town.  I meet two women, and I talk to them on getting back to the motel where my motorcycle must be with the sports car, I don't know how I got to this little in-between town.  Thus the two women I do not know from Adam, take me to an old thin lady in a bed and ask for her advice (could she be my mother? I don’t think so, but my mother was wise).  That is it, the whole dream, I wake up.” 

Now my interpretation may not be correct, but when I worked for Riverhills, Hospital, in Prescott, Wisconsin, back in the 1990s, and when I had studied in college Carl Jung, and others in Dream Psychology, I did fairly well with a few staff at the hospital.  It has been many years since I looked at dreams, but to make a story more interesting, let me try to break down my dream.
       First I do realize it is my conscious mind and my unconscious mind at work, trying to create a wholeness, or make full a concert picture out of my unconscious. It is a thing that I know, and I think I know (and we have emotions here also). I ask myself: did I dream deep (yes), painful (no), confusing (yes) scary (no), what was the emotion in total?   “Confusing”.
       Dreams are like fingerprints, each person has its own formula, or rules. And you got to know some of that person’s background.  I know me, so I’m set pretty good. Again I want to draw out the subconscious to the concrete. There are symbols here: sports car, motorcycle, land by a lake, I owned at one time all three. The person with me, I shooed him away, perhaps because I don’t care for people around me that pester me.  So we’ve got all the ingredients, and remember as I think Carl inferred: dreams are a window into the unconscious.
       I watched a movie last night, called “Predestination” with that in the background, a movie can transform, or eat its way into your subconscious, and this movie for me was very confusing. As in my dream, the protagonist was time-traveling from time zone to time zone. This could be it in a nutshell, but why such symbols? This brings me into another orbit, there is a chain here, and a dream obeys itself, in that it performs functions and you are the answer. 
       The ancient Greeks, would create a metaphor for a dream: perhaps if I was to take their metaphoric stance: the woman in the bed was a symbol for me to be open to new ideas, wisdom, intellectual development, values, which in essence is telling me to discuss.
       For the Greek, like many dream interpreters, dreams are insufficient, or of value. Some are prophetic, visions of what will come, warnings, much like the Jew would or might interpret a dream.  Herodotus, historian, believed to a certain degree, dreams are visions into the future.
       It think my dream was more in the insufficient area, but it was a story within itself, and I thought I’d share it. Perhaps the movie needed symbols for its creation of a dream, and picked deep and low to find something, to tell me, toss that stupid movie in the garbage.


Monday, November 14, 2016

Surviving the 2016 Presidential Elections

To Bedlam: Do or Die
(Surviving the 2016 Presidential Elections)

Split brains, to which give rise to a split personality in which the left hemisphere gives the answer: what happens to consciousness, when your brain splits?  In psychology and looking at the nation split over this most recent presidential election, and having lost three women friends of mine over it (in a kind of do or die way), I decided to write this story, “To Bedlam: Do or Die”. So in essence you can say the elections of 2016, and these three female friends, are related in my mindset, and I ask the question, why did they de-friend me?  The surface is never where the answer is, it is always under where the problem resides. The surface is I’m a Donald Trump devotee, or I’m for the Republican Party in essence, this election cycle; I have been on both sides of the fence. And these three women are for the Democratic Party, which is Hillary Clinton’s party, so fifty-five million people approximately think like her in America, and the same with perhaps two-million voters that were dishonestly added to the voting register, for Hillary, hoping that she’d be elected and they’d get permanent, citizenship. On the other hand, 55-million people think like Trump.
       Anyhow, we must leave the election, and get into the nitty-gritty psychological, or psychodrama of this.  Despite what you’ve been told, you and I are not left-brained or right brained, but for this story it seems to fit. We are not quite like that.  I am of course speaking in popular psychology. It is said the left hemisphere is more logical. Thus, this can make one feel left out or ostracized, as in the case of this election going to the Republican Party Candidate. It is a common human feeling, I’ve worked on many cases such as this when working in the field. Such matters can affect close friendships, family, you feel excluded, and the common word is ‘hurt’ metaphorically speaking. The social, emotional feeling is painful. Feeling socially rejected is like stubbing your toe (for the right, or Republican, they had to endure Obama for eight years, let the left digest that).
       So, let’s us look at my female friends, 1) An Old Neighborhood friend, dating back 55-years, said in essence “I can’t take your reasoning regardless,” blank, I’ve been erased from her life!  2) Now a High School, and Junior High School friend, dating back perhaps some 53-years, knowing she could no longer make a social connection with me, after a small confrontation, etched me out of her life, like a rat gnawing on a gravestone.  And 3) the Editor, she’s kind of a six year familiar friend, but a friend all the same, similarly, she felt she couldn’t deal with all the social information of her candidate losing.  Thus, she lashes out with aggression in response to feelings she is dealing with impaired people. Such as me, or those who voted for President-elect, Trump. She’ll misplace, if she has not already, her self-control. And likewise, this creates term effects of persistent social exclusion.
       Now this is important, and of course, this is my view, and it is a story in the sense (not a report or essay), it is a story, because it is a section of my life.  Having said that, let me continue: this is important because in all three cases it is called ‘bullying’ so I say to my three friends, in all respect, love and humility, keep in mind: there are long-term, negative influences, impacts, that one can have—with carelessly excluding a friend or an acquaintance in this matter, it doesn’t stop with this scenario, it digs its own grave.


Sunday, November 13, 2016

A Man of Influence ((Adolph Schuman) (Lilli Ann)) 1968-‘69

 A Man of Influence
 ((Adolph Schuman) (Lilli Ann)) 1968-‘69

Prologue: Now and then he’d come out of his international, political and influential box to mingle with us common folks, perhaps to see if he was still human, he was once only a truck driver, like Elvis, but I doubt he ever forgot his roots, the Hungarian-Jew, Adolph Schuman, born 1907, died 1985. Owned Lilli Ann clothing, out of San Francisco. A dear friend to John F. Kennedy and his brother Robert, who lived on Nob Hill, who made in his last decade between $40 to 53-million dollars a year today he’d be considered a billionaire. This story is brief, but I got to meet him on five different occasions, more like bumping into him, but the story is worth telling, for he was my boss.

As when I first met him, he gave off a discerning affection which gave to me the effect of emphasizing his undeniable striking features, dominated by dark and penetrating eyes and a shiny bronze—sun-glazed—skin, with an overall confident look of impact. Yes, he had great wealth and influence, and intellect, and will. One could see why men like JFK, fell under his spell, and friendship.
       I was twenty-years old when I first met him, worked for him in San Francisco, at Lilli Ann. He asked me to join him at his table for lunch one afternoon, at a Chinese Restaurant. I hesitated, but I left my booth and joined him and his little white dog, and his entourage. Among his staff was the manager and assistant manager, whom I got along with both quite well, the manager being of Jewish origin. I kind of stood by the table a moment, not sure why, then he smiled and nodded for me to sit down. I was kind of short-winded, taken by surprise, you know, taken off guard. My heart was pounding as if I had suddenly had to fall. I had always thought of him a bit elegantly stiff. Typically contemptuous. But he was my boss and I respected that.
       “Go ahead and eat,” he proposed, after I had seemed to drift off into wonderland, as a half dozen of us sat around the table. It was as if he had waited for me to eat before he would. And I suppose he saw me as waiting to eat as soon as I found a favorable wind. And then I did start eating and became more at ease.  I briefly explained I was a Midwestern lad, from St. Paul, Minnesota, and was working on a karate belt, with the famous Gogen Yamaguchi (‘The Cat’) and his son Goesi Yamaguchi, in the style of Goju-kai, and of course, working at his clothing factory, which he of course already knew.  But I really didn’t have much more to talk about.
       My dismay must have shown in my expressions, for once at a whim he fired me on the spot for handling his fabrics in an impulsive way, he was very fussy about his materials; and an hour later the manager hired me back.  Perhaps he was asking me to overlook that little incidental, mishap. Who’s to say?  On Christmas, 1968, he gave me a bottle of scotch, I sold it for $10.00, it was the best I suppose of its kind, but I never drank scotch.  Once his beautiful model, with a pearl ring as big as a quarter, was chasing Adolph around the factory, and he told me to hold the door tightly shut, when she came around, and when she came around, she looked at me with devil cat eyes, and said, “Back off from the door…!” And I did, I mean I didn’t want to get an object in the face like Hillary did to Bill Clinton, at the White House, eons ago. So she waved be aside and I stepped aside.
       I kind of pictured him as a sheer shadow of willpower. I know when he went to Paris to pick out his fabric he was quite, particular, and I knew his clothes were all in the top fashion magazines. And his clothing was expensive.  Matter of fact, I had a Lilli Ann dress made for my mother by the seamstresses, of Lilli Ann, for nothing, only the price of the fabric at cost, and without the label, which was the most costliest. And sent it to my mother.  She was so happy.
       I know after Adolph died, his family ran the business to the 1990s, and it was closed in 2000 A.D., and I know he was a charitable man.  He often reminded me of Albert Ritt, another millionaire I worked for in Minnesota, he and I got along quite well, we’d sit in his office and talk some.  He too, liked to—now and then, come out of the selective box, to mingle with us folks, in the real world ((his gross fixed assets were over $500-milllion, his net worth, I’m not sure, in the mid-1990s)(in comparison, in 2000, mine were 1.3-GFA)).
       But let me close this story by saying, I think these two people, rich people, rich as they were, with all their influence, knew: something others have forgotten: what is it worth of human life, unless it is all woven into both sides of the box, if indeed you are given the chance to be one among the many.