Think on These Things

By Thomas J. Murphy

Learn to get in touch with silence within yourself and know that everything in this life has purpose, all events are blessings given to us to learn from.
George Bernard Shaw
In these essays the author, having gained experience through a remarkable series of diverse occupations and associations, provides his seasoned, is sometimes acerbic opinions on matters of faith, morals, politics, the national economy, foreign affairs and family values.Some of the opinions echo Albert Camus's observation, "The struggle is endless and futile, but engaging in the struggle is what makes one human".

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479728398

Thomas J. Murphy

Tom Murphy lived and worked in Buffalo NY until 1992. He attended St Josephs Collegiate Institute, St Bonaventure U and SUNYAB At various at times he was employed as insurance broker, real estate developer and program administrator in the offices of three Buffalo mayors, Sedita, Makowski and Griffin. His writings include; Reflection on Life in Buffalo NY (1932-92) ANNOTATED Irish Mists and other opinions Slurry Seasons in Buffalo "The Mayor's Aunt" "Lessons Learned while growing old in Buffalo NY" Murphy can be reached at [e-mail]

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Copyright © 2012 by Thomas J. Murphy.

ISBN:                 Softcover                    978-1-4797-2838-1

                           Ebook                         978-1-4797-2839-8

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Contents

Foreword

Introduction

I The Changing Face Of The American Government

Ii A Divided Nation

Iii Usa Need For Oil/War On Terrorism

Iv National Health Care

V A Banking System Failure

Vi Disappearance Of Democracy

Vii Taxpayer Revolt

Viii Entitlement Reform

Ix State Of The Nation

X Wastefulness Of War

Xi Secular Humanist

Xii The Nation’s Obsession With Depravity

Xiii Public Education In Jeopardy

Xiv A Reader’s Path To Liberalism

Xv Parenthood

Xvi Theatre Experiences

Xvii Acknowledgements

Biography

Summary

"Finally, brethren,

whatsoever things are true,

whatsoever things are honest,

whatsoever things are just,

whatsoever things are pure,

whatsoever things are lovely,

whatsoever things are of good report;

if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise,

think on these things."

St Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians

FOREWORD

"To sing, to laugh, to dream,

To walk in my own way and be alone,

Free, with an eye to see things as they really are,

To fight or write.

Never to make a line I have not heard

In my own heart."

Cyrano de Bergerac

by Edmond Rostand

I was born in Buffalo NY and since both of my parents, and all of my ancestors, were Irish-Catholic I always thought of myself as being a nobody, who came of an unrecorded line of nobodies,—in other words, a typical Buffalonian. But I’ve learned since then that there are no ‘typical’ people and that principles and practices don’t stay the same. But for a very long time I didn’t see that. I just went blindly through most of my days doing what seemed ordinary while growing up in a big city,—getting through school, falling in love, raising a family, learning, working, scoring some victories and suffering some defeats,-to myself I was usually barely hanging on. I never stood back and looked at myself and what I was doing. I took it for granted that, like most of the billions of people who are born and die on this planet, I was just an accident. But I also recognized that with some long hours of hard work, and a little bit of luck, a person could survive, and even prosper.

When I married in 1952, America was experiencing post World War II prosperity and confidence. Buffalo NY was still a bustling blue collar community with a population of more than ½ million people. An industrial mix of steel, auto, and aircraft production, grain milling, railroad and lake shipping, and a thriving construction industry provided a host of well-paying jobs for anyone who was willing to work. Of course, I was confident that I was strong enough, and smart enough to earn a decent living for our family no matter what the circumstances. Initially, I earned a decent living in sales, first appliances then insurance, before progressing into business administration and eventually into public administration. But, more and more each day, I had compartmentalized my life. When I attended school, while working full-time, student activities were left on the UB campus, neither scholastic problems nor family affairs were to intrude into the workplace, and I tried never to bring work problems or financial concerns into my home. There was also a fourth compartment, my personal, private self. Few people in my life were permitted into more than one compartment and no one was ever allowed into all four compartments. I’ve always been to enjoy the benefits of doubling, which is the art of dividing oneself into two separarately functioning wholes. Whenever I wanted, I could retreat to someplace (albeit only mental) both beautiful and quiet, and lock the gate. I absolutely enjoyed each and every period of my solitude which liberated me from the needs, schedules and demands of others. In this manner I was able to move and to think at my own pace and to work or leisure according to my own inclination. I also was always able to retain my ability to terminate my aloneness and to reestablish contact with others,—whenever I chose.

The ability to ‘compartmentalize’ is an invaluable tool for the insurance agent, who must always project the image of impenetrable integrity and confidentiality. The process of selling life insurance involves asking a series of probing, intensely personal questions about marriage, finances, business relationships, parenthood, income, expenses and family relationships. For maybe the first time, and maybe the only time in their lifetime, friends, acquaintances and total strangers shared with me their fears, hopes, dreams, personal strengths and failings, true religious beliefs and matters of loyalty, fidelity, and honesty. In turn, I never shared anything that I heard, learned or guessed with another person,—not with my wife or family members,—not with the spouse, family member or partners of my confidant,—and not with any insurance company or law enforcement agency.

This dedication to strict confidentiality stood me in good stead when I entered the political world at City Hall, where I served in an executive capacity under three different Mayors for more than 25 years. The first lesson any advisor to a public official must learn is that in order to be influential one must remain unseen and untitled, for if an advisor is seen as a competitor his advice will be ignored. And, the other cardinal and unbreakable rule is that things that were said, or issues that were discussed in the Mayor’s office were never to be discussed with anyone outside the Mayor’s office. Tensions within City Hall, disappointments, or even small successes were not brought home to the family, or trumpeted at cocktail parties or at social affairs.

As I neared my retirement years, there grew the gnawing realization that all of my life I had been someone’s son, someone’s husband, someone’s father, someone’s employee,—and I felt that I had performed each role reasonably well! Now, suddenly, I was 55 years old, my wife, and my children, now grown, were emotionally and financially independent of me. I then simply decided that for the last years of my life, I would simply be myself, in debt to no one and obliged in no way to act responsibly or respectfully! No one any longer had the right to judge me, my intentions, or my actions. I had earned the right to make a fool of myself, if that’s what I wanted to do, so long as I hurt no one else in the process. I all but abandoned my lifetime roles of spouse, parent and public servant and, once I had retired, I moved to Florida, alone.

Once I settled in Florida, free of all responsibility except to care for myself, I became used to living alone. The novel pleasure of independence soon made solitude more than tolerable. I could change the hours of my meals, drink as much or as little of whatever and whenever I chose, come home or go out without giving reasons and when I was very tired stretch my arms and legs out to the sides of my bed. I coddled myself, pampered myself and accepted whatever sexual gratuities were offered to me. I found time to take stock of who I am, where I’ve been and where I’m going. My housing and everyday living expenses were modest and manageable and I soon realized that though I hadn’t enough money to do anything that I desired, I did have sufficient income that I would never again have to do anything that I did not want to do. There were emotional and psychological adjustments. My social network had disappeared for I was no longer in daily, or even occasional contact with old school chums, family friends, former business acquaintances, co-workers or neighbors. New social contacts not only were less intense but were also less deep-rooted because there is a subconscious sense of impermanence as illness and death keep changing the casts in each social circle

I tried to stay active both mentally and physically. I played a little golf (not very well) and I became a fairly accomplished (senior doubles) tennis player. I remained an avid crossword puzzle adherent and I learned to play bridge. But as my need for additional wealth diminished, and my reliance on my regular but limited income increased, my desire to gamble left me and I stopped going to gambling casinos or playing high stakes card games. I took great pleasure in each night’s good sleep. I was finally able to conquer my addiction to nicotine (albeit with a lot of help from witch-doctoring) and this allowed me to enjoy the flavor, texture and aroma of food and good wine. Over the years I shared my home and life’s pleasures with three lovely and loving women but it each instance I was able to retain and relish my periods of solitude. My reading habits didn’t change much. I read books and stories by John O’Hara because of his grasp of the common man’s attitude toward life’s problems and the author’s ability to convey his philosophies through his character’s dialogue. I read, and reread everything that Kurt Vonnegut has written in the hope that I can glean just a bit of his clarity of thought and fanciful view of life’s problems and opportunities. I read G B Shaw for the pure enjoyment of his wit and intelligence. I enjoyed the sardonic essays of Gore Vidal and of Christopher Hitchens. And, I continued to read books dealing with the nation’s economy and government, as well as biographies and memoirs. I subscribed to the NY Times, New York Review of Books, National Affairs Journal, Atlantic Magazine and the St Pete Times. Reading diverse opinions invariably creates an aura of doubting and wondering, which in turn often allows one to make judgements about the understandings and priorities that govern our everyday lives.

I had always believed that I expressed myself more clearly, and with more certainty, in written form, rather than in verbal discourse. I’ve always found that a written document permitted an argument to be made fully, and didn’t allow contradictions, nor diversionary comments. When I was a young man, it seemed that my opinions mattered to a few people, but I had little of value in the way of advice or opinion to offer my small audience. Once I had grown older, and had grudgingly become a curmudgeon, it became painfully obvious to me that while my opinions gained merit, they mattered to fewer people each day. Then, the announcement by the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association that their 2006 meeting to commemorate the 65th anniversary of that momentous event would be the final gathering of this dwindling group of brave men, brought forcefully to my mind that I am one of the youngest who remembers either The Great Depression or the beginning and the conduct of WW II and that most of my teachers, men and women who with their words, thoughts and actions inspired individuals to goodness and greatness, have been stilled by death or infirmity. I decided that it was time for me to record some of my random thoughts on paper, on the chance that someday, they would be entertaining, or helpful, to someone that I’ve never met.

The first thing that had to be acknowledged was that I had grown old. Old age sneaks up on you. There is a sense of despair that arises when one is forced, for the first time, to confront the betrayal of an aging body. Then, one begins to ask,—How am I supposed to act? for in my head nothing has changed. I still have carnal cravings and hedonic impulses. But, I live alone and think that helps for solitude offers an escape from the negative aspects of social existence,—the boredom, conflict, or anxious striving to please others that drains one’s energy and vitality. Undoubtedly, being alone also allows a person to focus on a dimension of one’s ‘self’ that is better appreciated when one is not distracted by the need to attend to others. But, I am sometimes disturbed by the contradiction between the pleasure that I experience from being alone and the dread I feel of being alone at those times when I want companionship and affection. I am forced to acknowledge that I have become a socially isolated individual and it becomes more apparent each day that as I suffer diminished capacity for performing physical tasks, there is a growing need for affection and emotional support.

All of the available evidence suggests that I am a person who’s impossible to live with and not too much fun to talk to. I’m no longer interested in telling people those things that they are anxious to hear. I’m content to simply tell people those things that I want them to know. An Irish trait is to find humor in the most tragic of the human conditions. Irishmen are noted for being garrulous, sardonic, good natured and melancholic hard drinkers and I’m Irish. I think funny and, after a couple of drinks, feel gifted with a fluency, wit and charm that could warm the heart of even an English landlord as my sainted mother used to say. But when I sit down before my personal computer I produce writings which are usually both ponderous and contentious. I never aspired to become a ‘serious’ person and I certainly never envisioned myself as an ally to the working class,—or ‘defender of the poor and oppressed’ but that seems to be the way things worked out.

Nevertheless, I’ve continued to read, continued to try to think and the need to continue to write persists. My reading has enabled me to establish a sense of both my ethical integrity and my intellectual integrity. My predilection is to write in opposition to the powerful,—the megacorporation, the government, or the whole apparatus of assimulation. My opinions and conclusions were not formed as a result of watching politicians, or their hacks, spouting their homilies and bromides on television, but by reading books and articles written by authors of different, and often contradictory, political, religious, and economic persuasions. This insight created the need in me to alert the morally blind world to the virtual whirlwind of catastrophes atop us and on the immediate horizon. I knew there was a reason that I love reading and love writing! I simply want to be recognized for what I am, and by writing I can insure that I’m not misunderstood. As long as I don’t care if only a few people, or no one, read my writings I am free to express my feelings by writing whatever I wanted to say. But, I’m forced to admit that I also desperately wanted to convey my thoughts to the rest of the world and that writing essays seemed to be the best way of accomplishing my ambition. But I soon found that as I had more and more that I wanted to say to readers, readers had less and less desire to read my thoughts. While there is little question that how governments and megacorporations behave are the major factors in determining todays standards of living, as well as configuring our ethical and moral codes and standards, the fact remains that the technology (ie Internet, Facebook, IPad, etc) specifically aims to render concerns about these matters moot. What’s topically relevant when I’m writing an essay will almost certainly be passe by the time that it’s written, rewritten, published, distributed and read. There can be no expectation that the subject of any essay will be received as news. At best, an essay can only awaken the reader’s sensibility to critical issues that are being foisted on the public as gossipy tidbits or established tenets. Just as digital photography has made the realism of each picture suspect, each news item must be examined for factual integrity and propagandist aims. Political columnists and speechwriters seldom lie, but they invariably report truisms in the vocabulary and phraseology that extols their patron.

Each of us has a private world, and the only difference between the reader and the writer is that the writer has the ability to describe and dramatize that private world. As a writer, I write to see and to understand. If I knew how it would end, I wouldn’t write. It’s a process of discovery. This book consists of a series of opinionated essays in which I expound on matters of faith, morals, politics, the national economy, foreign affairs and family values. I am neither an intellectual nor a scholar. I have half-jokingly stated on several occasions that all that I know about history, I’ve learned from Hollywood movies. But what I see today on television, in the movies, and on the internet and in newspapers, in many ways reminds me of the terrible teachings and actions perpetrated on the world, by the Axis powers and by Stalinist Russia, during the 1930’s and 1940’s. For at least the past 20 years I have seen America’s leaders (of both parties) marching in the footprints of Hitler and Mussolini, and like the German and Italian citizens of the 1930s, Americans don’t seem to mind. The extremely conservative wing of the GOP has skillfully converted xenophobia (fear of foreign religions and inferior races) into one of the basic values of secular America. Business journals blare warnings of the imminent collapse of our financial world and economic system while quoting CEOs, who are making $millions per month, assuring us that everything is well with the world economy, that echo the statements that preceded The Great Depression in the 1930s. I don’t wish to leave unnoticed by today’s generations the similarities between the actions of yesterday’s robber barons, and their justifications for their actions, and the recent actions and statements by today’s government officials and business leaders. And, even though I carefully locate my despair in the past tense, it’s difficult for me to confess all of my doubts about our nation’s future prospects. For what these essays share is a belief that people come into and leave the world alone, and what passes in between for communication with others is at best a sometime thing and more often an exercise in mutual misunderstanding. My socialism is pragmatic, anti-utopian, perhaps little more than an expression of my hope that the condition of the poor and the powerless can be improved without revolution. I’m a humanist with little hope for any any real change unless decency can somehow be made to prevail. I claim no special knowledge, nor any prescience, but I believe that we are what we pretend to be and so it’s important that we pretend to be honest, and honorable, and humane.

I have explained over and over again that my principal purpose in writing is simply to provide a kind of catharsis for my own thoughts. They worry me until they are set forth in words. This may be a kind of vanity, but in any event it is free of any moral purpose. I am never much interested in the effects of what I write. These essays have no great meanings, no points to make, no arguments to advance. This small book has no designs on you; you can do as you please with it. But, I truly hope that someone will read this small book. I would like my ideas and complaints given some serious consideration. And,—whether or not you agree with anything that I’ve written,—I’m indebted to you for granting me a portion of your time, and for listening to me for just a bit.

Tom Murphy (August 30, 2012)

Introduction

". . . the main thing in determining the artistic quality of a book is not the opinions it propagates but the fact that the writer has opinions."

George Bernard Shaw

Grudgingly, I have become a curmudgeon. When I was a young man, it seemed that my opinions mattered to a few people, but I had little of value in the way of advice or opinion to offer my small audience. As I grew older, it became painfully obvious to me that while my opinions gained merit, they mattered to fewer people each day. Then, the announcement by the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association that their 2006 meeting to commemorate the 65th anniversary of that momentous event would be the final gathering of this dwindling group of brave men, brought forcefully to my mind that I am one of the