Musing Interruptus

Hello and welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking and thank you for listening.

There is a difference between showing your affection because, it exudes out of your pores, creating a halo of adoration, unequivocally so, and showing affection as a way to receive affection. There is an ego push, relentless, disconnected, intermittent, and unsustainable.

The ulterior motive defines how seduction is perceived, and if I am not mistaken, it sets the tone for the relationship. Today on Musing Interruptus, Wild Horses.

The life drive, as in Freud. In Spanish, pulsión de vida, an energy that comes from the origin and feeds the origin. Any and all sensations that motivate satisfying a need. It is tension, libido, infatuation, and connection-based pining. It is a search for release, a short-lived, addictive satisfaction. Is it an addiction if you need it to live, by definition? On the opposing end of Eros is Thanos, a death drive balancing the voracity of desire and creation.

Mary Wollstonecraft articulated an argument for women’s edification based on the need to differentiate a worthy suitor from a scoundrel interested only in sexual intercourse. An educated woman may uncover the wolf in sheep’s clothes. What Mary didn’t mention is that education may also allow said woman to disrobe the wolf, in an act of seduction. Furthermore, an educated woman’s life is informed by a plethora of interests and curiosities, diverse needs to create and achieve. The life drive serves purposes beyond the preservation of the species on a biological plane, it fosters diverse human manifestations of intellect. Pushing creation and intellectuality, hurling human development through space and time. Yes, women need to be educated as a means to save humanity.

Say you find yourself on this journey and your path should be met with a counterpart, to the fullest extent, or three-quarters or half. You will be able to identify them with every atom and sub-particle. This is the path, down which, seduction cannot be planned or manipulated into existence. It is an unsupervised chemical reaction urging the hosts to act through attraction, cemented by admiration. Unmistakable for anything else, by those living it and those witnessing, the stuff love stories are made of. In real life, it takes a lot more than a meet-cute to kick things off. There is a lot of internal work that goes on.

The ulterior motive is either classified, in terms of music or songs, as Wild Horses, by the Rolling Stones or Jimmy Buffet’s Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw. Mind you, I’m not passing judgment on either scenario, I am simply stating that both parties should be able to identify which it is if only to create the right playlist for the occasion. Thank you for listening.

Have you confused these scenarios?  What tipped you off? How did you resolve it? Do you agree when I say every level of an individual deserves to be developed and that this is conducive to true self-love and the ability to love others and even be loved? I guess what I’m saying and asking, in the words of Bob Marley, Could you be loved? I’m listening.

Hello and welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking and thank you for listening. If you like this podcast and think someone else might like it, please feel free to share. Also, I love when you continue the conversation. You can leave a voice message on the Anchor website or write to me via Lucid Communication Academy’s Facebook or Instagram pages. That is one of the purposes of Musing Interruptus.

There are phrases that indicate you should brace yourself; whatever is coming next is going to rock your world or maybe even turn it upside down. Whether it is an irreversible act, or plain bad news, there are words that when strung together, can feel like a blunt blow to the head or even the gut. Feeling the air is knocked out of you or maybe, that the air escaped the room leaving basic sounds that overwhelm the space or even the world. The kind of words that stop your heart and then throw your whole system into overdrive. Today on Musing Interruptus, Let’s Call It What It Is.

Social conventions dictate we construct our discourse in such a way we prepare our interlocutors for what is coming. Generally, I believe this is a good practice. It helps the receptor of our message better understand what we want to say, not only in terms of explicit content but what is implicit. These phrases introduce difficult conversations, they imply that what is coming is perhaps uncomfortable and you most likely won’t like it.

Phrases like, we need to talk, are a clear indication you need to brace yourself; the relationship is over. If your girlfriend says this, start thinking about what kind of breakup you want, get some ice cream, romcoms and update your Tinder account, a heartbreak is coming.

I wish things could be different, meaning that whatever happened, probably can’t be reversed. I’m sorry to tell you or I regret to inform you implies rejection, maybe your work is toilet. Remember, that phrase doesn’t actually exist, but it might catch on. The phrase, I’m not going to lie to you, and you’d better sit down for this implies that what is coming up is bad. I’m not going to lie to you, your haircut is toilet. A phrase I’ve told several dogs after I’ve believed I can be a doggy stylist. My sister and husband have heard this phrase in the very same situation. You can’t see me, but I have an oops face. If you are at work and your boss says, we have to let you go, that means you are fired. And no, you are not in the position to say, oh, don’t worry, I can hold on. I’m calling it can be heard among doctors and surgeons who have to declare time of death. You might hear someone, in a different context say, I’m calling it, meaning, they are giving up on something, like a project or a specific outcome. You might get a call from someone shady, saying, it’s done, if they don’t say exactly what is done, you might have an indication it isn’t legal and, since they are reporting back to you, well, they did it on your behalf. Holy moly. Get an alibi, lose the phone, jump on a plane and get yourself to a non-extradition country and figure out the details later. Continue Reading

Hello and welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking and thank you for listening. How have you been? I’ve missed the sight of you, an absurd thing to say when writing a podcast episode, especially this one, which is only audible. Absurd. It feels good to identify the absurd. It feels like a discovery unlocked by a key known as, I’m smarter than you. Or so you thought! Today on Musing Interruptus, I’m not proving any points, in my favor or yours. Absurd, you say? Yes. That’s Absurd.

There are many absurd notions circling about. Programmed obsolescence for one. Seeming to be a very rusty nail the coffin of climate change. Waiting in traffic is absurd. Waiting when life is so short, is absurd. You know what I find truly absurd?! In Mexico, you are required to have a driver’s license to operate a car, however, you just have to pay for it. There is no test. Absurd!

In a world where injustice and pain reign (statistically speaking), one of the largest institutions promoting a semblance of a moral compass falls short of truly promoting a more just and peaceful world. It starts out well, the promise of an afterlife paradise, you know, being reunited with loved ones works out for a few. Because, obviously, being good to each other for the hell of it doesn’t seem to be worth it. I think it is, by the way. But most need a reward, we do this in school, it is called gamification. Take a page from these long-lasting institutions. They use that strategy too. HOWEVER, very much like a party-school, there is something appealing in the contract that will retain your allegiance to the very end.  Repenting for absolution of sins before death. That has to be one of the most absurd loopholes I’ve ever heard of. It is like a get out of jail free card, or purgatory, after doing everything wrong while alive. This seems to have no limitations. Are you Hitler or Pinochet, Stalin or Pol Pot? King Leopold the II of Belgium or whoever invented the institution of marriage. Repent just before your soul leaves and all will be taken care of, all will be forgiven. Of course, we can’t really know if that is what happens. Maybe you do have to do no harm, all the time. Period. By the way, this institution also promotes unequal relations among humankind, so I won’t think too much of the wolf in lamb’s clothes. I do think highly of those who promote love, peace, and acceptance with their actions. Whether or not they are part of an institution. I think it is absurd not to.

I live in a country where we find the need to make a distinction between sopa aguada or Mexican Pasta Soup which translated from Spanish is watery soup and pasta, also called sopa in some households. This is where I get very confused, because pasta can be served in a soup, as a side dish or as a main course. Depending on the household this is true to a greater or lesser degree. My fragile mind just thinks, this is absurd, they are different pasta dishes. But that is far from cultural relativism, and my relatives would probably not appreciate this part of today’s podcast. Because of their affiliation to the Church, I don’t think they will like the first part either. So, this is a lost cause and to continue writing this is simply, say it with me… absurd. Wait, let’s try that again, one, two, three… absurd. Continue Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus, thank you for clicking and thank you for listening. Pull up a seat next to me. I’ve been wanting to go off on a rant for some time, I have been dancing around the topic of resilience. According to Diane Coutu (2018, p.11), a super expert… most theories on resilience enunciate three characteristics shared by people who are resilient: an obstinate acceptance of reality, the profound conviction that life has meaning (a belief that is based on deeply rooted values) and an awesome capacity to improvise. I am not an expert, I am merely a resilience enthusiast. Life, love, the universe, whatever, has knocked me down a couple times. It’s actually a lot more than that. I always get back up. I admire that capacity in people, almost as much as I admire intelligence and curiosity and funniness. All part of the package I guess.

Before we start, this Musing Interrptus was inspired by a class I had with my student Fernando who contributed to the conversation by bringing up the woodcarver in question, Daniel for telling me the uncensored version of Pinocchio. Thank to both. AND a challenge launched by my sister Andrée. So, if this is toilet, we can just say it is all on them.

A lot of Disney’s animations are very sad. For the life of me I can’t get through a second viewing of Dumbo, Bambi or Pinocchio. These are a special kind of mental torture that I would prefer to sit out. I’ve had Geppetto on my mind, especially since Fernando decided to talk about the cruelty of a wooden boy being kicked out of school. He was particularly miffed with the school teacher. In all honesty, I think I would have done the same thing. How do you explain a walking, talking wooden puppet who thinks he can learn, and arrives at my school. Call me mean hearted but I too would kick out the wooden fiend, hailing from hell. Come on, I mean, any responsible schoolteacher would keep a demon away from their students. Seen from another perspective. If you, as the teacher, realize you are starting to have hallucinations, and I bet there are a lot of teachers who would agree with me, you have to put a lot of things in order, like get your lesson plans, materials, and notes, and find a suitable sub (available sub), before you deign take care of yourself. In any case,  I think the teacher was in the right to protect the classroom from demons. Maybe, considering the times, the teacher’s actions would be considered above and beyond had he called the exorcists from the local catholic church… according to my calculations, if the story happened in a Tuscan town, the approximate distance from the Prisoner in the Vatican was about a day’s worth of horse riding. Taking a whole two days off from teaching is unthinkiable for a teacher covering a syllabus. Let’s face it, it could have been longer, considering the newly unified Italy had a ways to go in terms of nation building. The teacher would have found obstacles on the road. Their best bet would have been to alert the local church or burn the possessed puppet in a bonfire or nearest witch burning. That aside, let’s look at the root of the story. Geppetto, the woodcarver. Continue Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, and thank you for listening. Writers get hired to do all sorts of interesting things. The first time I was hired to write, I was in high school. I wrote love letters. Needless to say, everything started out well, the objective was achieved, I hit that target, right between the eyes… but then something went wrong. Call it human error or human nature. The person who hired me let the cat out of the bag. Everything fell through after that. Including our friendship. Not a promising future as a hired-writer there. However, there are things you just can’t seem to shake. For me, writing has been one of them. I love writing letters. At my last job, that was one of my favorite activities. I called it: trashcan diplomacy. I would write letters expressing support for a candidate for some position in X or Y international forum. Those letters weren't signed by me, they counted as a vote of confidence, and the letters most likely were filed away or thrown out. That was part of the job. Anonymity in writing is not foreign to me. Ghostwriting can be fun. This week, a client asked me to write a love letter. It has given me a lot to think about.  Today, simplicity makes perfect and takes over with the love letter.

Expressing desire and love, two very different things, can be daunting, under even the best of circumstances. A leap into an abyss which generally if not always, is propelled by an expectation that this expression will be reciprocated, is no easy feat. The abyss can be dark. A fall into darkness is both exciting and liberating. Scary too. Ultimately, a must-have experience. There are so many ways to do it. Blurting it out, as if the feeling caught you off guard, in a moment of vulnerability, when you were thinking about something else, and this parallel feeling, racing to the moment of being liberated, beats out all the rest and stumbles out of your mouth. A nice surprise. You can also plan it, prepare the stage for what you hope will be magic. A little pomp and circumstance won’t hurt anyone, and it can make for a very nice memory. Then, there is the love letter. Timeless. Crafting it can be tricky. A few things to keep in mind: be honest, find the right words, stay away from derivative imagery and platitudes, and let your words slice through your fear, expectations, and insecurities straight to the heart of who you are, what you feel, and what you wish for and from the person receiving the letter.

A few words of caution, ego needs to be set aside when writing for someone else. Be prepared to have your work eviscerated. This doesn’t mean you aren’t appreciated, there is another, more delicate level of work that hangs in the balance. This is an exercise in expression and valor. The hired-writer becomes coach and sometimes a voice. Maybe legitimizing feelings, showing support and accompanying she or he who is pining. A veritable Cyrano de Bergerac.  Your words may be the vehicle or simply the mirror or echo. Two can seem like an army. We're talking about the stuff superheroes need to muster up to go up against their nemesis in sudden death. Do or die. Sink or swim. It is all or nothing. I know it comes easier for some- good for them. The rest need a little support, a little help from their friends. As you write, whether you are capturing someone else’s feelings, or you are writing for yourself, it will do you good to remember that the objective isn’t necessarily winning someone’s love. You either have that or don’t. Like Schrodinger's Cat. Continue Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. Today we have a story on our hands. Believe me when I say this, it is inconsequential and completely made up. Trust me. However, hopefully, you will get some nifty idiomatic phrases out of this. What do I get out of this, you ask? What don’t I get out of this… I love doing this. So, pull up a chair or put on your walking shoes, hey - ho, let’s go!

As I start writing this, I immediately regret the song selection, too late for cold feet,  no use in crying over spilt milk. It is not like I can go back to the title and start all over again, and nobody would find out. No. That would be dishonest. I’m committed to this song. We are in this together. And this my friends, is a serious business, not monkey business. Here I go… Are you ready?

To understand this song, we need to jump back to June 15th, 1941, the day my friend Harry was born. His mother had such a difficult time in childbirth that she decided not to have anymore after Harry. He was an only child, as you will come to appreciate, this made an impression on him. You know, back in the day, childhood didn’t exist. People were just young and strong enough to get to work or war for that matter. By 1942 he was walking and by 1943 his family was sending him off to war with the special short and young people’s brigade. War is messy and not much to be proud of, no matter what side you are on. Sending young ones may have been one of the most brilliantly calculated moves, but never spoken of, on account of the massive loss of young life. To this day, this song is the only real tale of the under 90 Battalion. Under 90 cm that is. Harry was one of the lucky ones. He came back, but was never really able to speak of the horrors he saw. Mostly because at three his vocabulary wasn’t that developed yet. He never forgot those experiences. Being an only child, going to war and being the sole survivor of his battalion. When he started school, his PTSD, undiagnosed, of course, complicated his interaction with the other young people in first grade. Let us recall that post-traumatic stress disorder was recognized as a mental health issue until 1980. As I was saying, Harry would go in and out of  flash-backs with certain triggers. The playground, as I am sure you can empathize with my dear friends, can feel like a battlefield, throw a dodgeball into the mix, and you were sure to have Harry in a state that required the school nurse to coax him down from the apple tree. This happened to be the highest place he could get to. Sometimes he would use the apples as projectiles. This, however, was well received and the young ones would crowd around Harry and cheer. His flashbacks were not swayed by the cheers. The damage had been done. His perception of himself and life as he knew it had been altered. He was alone on the field, surviving and heavens knows what else had gone on during the war.

By the time he was 27 - 1968 - still undiagnosed, found solace in songwriting. One is the loneliest number, this is a reminder of how he learned to count while on the battlefield, one short stature, young person left standing. Two can be as bad as one (don’t start singing please, this fake story is not over yet). Learning to count, one, two… there were no more on the field, one left, the last to be picked to play dodgeball on the playground, one in his lonely bedroom, playing with one car, one up a tree throwing apples. Continue Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Youth is a wonderful thing, changing in your hands, evolving and why not, aging. One day, as I looked in the mirror, I realized it was left behind yesterday. That is ok. Rightly so, there is no turning back here. My friend Ale reminded me, you will never be this young again.

There are certain activities associated with youth, a mindset whose true north is freedom, consequences be damned, as youth has the certainty it will always be worth it. Wisdom will set-in confirming it, don’t you worry. Beautiful ingénues, hindsight is 20-20.

Ok, that aside. One of the best parts about being young is that it is socially acceptable to get excited about things. Jumping up and down and squealing, for instance. I wonder if as we age manifestation of excitement is subdued on account of embarrassment or bad knees, I’ve got both. I can’t entertain the possibility of people simply not getting excited anymore.  I do know that as we have more experience, we try to conceal the heart on our sleeves. Way battered from the intense experiences of our youth. That is another reason sitting the next one out seems forgivable and even desirable, at times.

Then again, you are as old as you feel and, damn it, I can feel any way I goddamn wanna feel, you too. So, this reminds me of another brilliant part of youth… First times. First words, the first time you taste chocolate, first day of school, rollercoaster ride, dance, kiss, broken heart, trophy, the first time you make love, first car accident, marriage, child, their firsts… A fun one, first time you fall in love with a music idol. This energy harnessed by the person at the mic, center stage, personifying an ideal and becoming the collective object of desire. Some of my favorite sex symbols: Elvis, The Beatles, Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Prince, Lenny Kravitz,  -Bono- Their moves awaken primitive feelings, one of those feelings, very characteristic of youth. Elvis Presley was interviewed, and many times questioned about his moves. In 1956 he told TV Guide:  “... I don’t roll my — what they call ‘pelvic gyrations’ — my pelvis has nothing to do with what I do. I just — I get rhythm with the music. I jump around to it because I enjoy what I’m doing. I’m not trying to be vulgar, not trying to stimulate [sic] sex. I just do a lot of wigglin’ and quiverin’, but I never do a bump or grind. I can’t sit still when I sing, so the kids can’t sit still.”

What a loaded answer. People normally mean what they say they don’t, when it is stated right off the bat like that. Then again, music is intrinsically a manifestation of feelings. The most dominant feelings are desire, falling in love, sadness, and anger. Music is plagued with the expression of these feelings. Storytelling with tunes. Sometimes non-verbal musical storytelling takes place. In any case, movement goes together with dancing. What came first, the music or the dance? This is a great question. As many times music imitates sounds, and natural rhythms. One could posit music starts with our mother’s heartbeat. Do you see that too?

It is only natural to move, give into the music, let it rush through you and take over. Dance is a young person’s game, better knees, you know? Which doesn’t mean we stop swaying as we get older, but it does seem that opportunities to dance diminish as time goes by. Continue Reading

Hello, you are listening to Musing Interruptus. What would the wicked witch of the story do on a Sunday evening?  Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all… I say them because I am a whole other can of worms. Emphasis on the worms. Squirmy, slimy worms. Protein-filled worms. Transformative little buggers. Aren’t we all what we eat?

I’d like to be an eagle, soar through the air, or a cheetah, faster than a speeding bullet. Oh wait, that is mighty mouse. I could do that too. Here he comes to save the day. Wait, that is a middle-aged woman. I wouldn’t eat an eagle, a cheetah, nor mighty mouse. Worms, I might. Worm tacos, worm, ice cream. Worm baguettes.-- du dump dum!

I’d like to be a great many different things, but I would also like to be, just who I am. Couldn’t I just be? Undefined by you or me? Could I just breathe who I am, not worried if you think I am wrong or right? Is there a breath so free? I used to race the rain until gravity put me in proper submission. From the onset, I knew I could not beat it, but I did it anyway, until the cold cut my reddened cheeks. Yes, witching around can be exhausting.

You see, it is not only the physical exertion, it is so much more than that. It is dealing with neighbors and a community that would prefer not see the likes me. Worried for their youth, I might absorb it up with my magic. But let me tell you, that doesn’t happen. I don’t know how to do that and my Tuesday’s witches circle hasn’t spoken of it either. Let us remember, this is for you, non-witches, if we could harness youth, witches would be a more aspirational thing to be. I mean, in this youth-centered society, it would simply be the thing to be. No, it is fatiguing, going around, wearing the wrong fitting skin, just to avoid disruption or intrusion. Getting into that skin every day is exhausting. More than that, its walking around in that skin, convinced that it is willingly. Until one day, you no longer have the strength to convince yourself.  You can see it in the mirror. It is plain to see. A duller reflection. If I didn’t have my Tuesday witchery time, I might go mad.

Do you know what witches do on Sunday evenings?- While everyone is eagerly postponing Monday morning schlepping around the city. We drink sweet liquids and paint the sky. Sunday evenings are the best moments of the week, as long as you shred past the denseness of the air, polluted with heavy hearts, soar into the night air, wind blowing in your hair, cold cheeks and speed. Nobody looks into the night sky anymore, I wonder what they do with all the hope that isn’t had… No, no eager eyes to the night sky, not on Sunday evenings. What a pity. But it’s great for us. That is when we witches can be the freest, what seems like the most dismal day of the week, leaves an opportunity to just be, in plain sight. Continue reading

Hello and welcome to Musing Interruptus. Today we visit the fortune teller. I’m excited. This is going to be fun! Who doesn’t want to find out what the future has in store? By the way, clairvoyants are not to be confused with futurologists. I’m talking about those with the powers to magically see what’s to come, our oracles, and precogs; such interesting people prepared to create a bridge between us and what is in the cards. By the way, this one is for real.

I got the address off from a funky-looking dog, who, as it turns out, was waiting for me on the corner. It was a Sunday, at 6:00 am, I was on a walk, and there he was, a scruffy, down-to-no-good lookin’ dog. He stood in front of me and I felt like some sort of energy traveled from him to me, and I figured there was a hidden note in his collar. I’m just going to chalk it up to one of those things. The crazy part was reading the dog's handwriting. No, I’m kidding. That is obviously not the crazy part.

Sunday morning, 6:00 am, at the corner of Give me Sign and Please Don’t Let Me Be Wrong, the weather was cool, dewy, and darkness was being threatened by light. I decided hope was not lost. I just wanted a peek into the future so I could feel the slightest satisfaction and appease my mind with an iota of confirmation from a trusty source. Something had led me to that corner. This was not fortuitous. That dog was not in my way, that Scruffy Mr. Funny Eyes McGee was waiting for me. Does that mean, the roads I traipse down are part of a more complex configuration? I mean… destiny? Was I destined to meet that dog there? Is that a thing? Is that scruffy dog, that I have now officially named, proof of that? That note was addressed to me. This was probably the most mysterious part so far. Who set this up? I sat on the curb, next to the dog. Paper note in hand. I wondered, why not just message me, send an email, or even, I know this is old school, slip the note under my door. I was looking at a handwritten note, with the address of M. Clair V. That’s cute. This is like when you say you want to buy something out loud and Facebook shows you personalized ads.

So, are we just pawns or whatever chess piece you prefer… they are ultimately being moved. Is that us? What a joke. Then again, I think of the arts as the confirmation destiny does not exist, art is creation and free-will at its finest. My logic seems to be flawless. Go with it.  I’m at another crossroads. I can see two arguments here, at least. Creation confirms there is no destiny and we are indeed endowed with free will. Legit! What follows? The work of oracles, precogs, clairvoyants is further defined as seeing what then? Wouldn’t they be able to see these future works of art and become the artists themselves? Or winning lottery numbers? Avoid catastrophes, … it wouldn’t make sense to have destiny apply to some situations and not others. The system does not have independent parts. So the future isn’t found in the chapters written out in the stars or the contents of Santa’s Naughty and Nice list. If nothing is written and each moment builds to a different reality-- Well, what it means is that anything is possible, therefore anything the precog says they see, is bound to happen or not. And just like that, they are frauds. You won’t get your money’s worth of sound future telling. But the dog.  The dog was there and I was there. I am forgetting to factor this in. The dog had a note for me. Continue Reading

Welcome to Musing Interruptus. Thank you for clicking, thank you for listening. As we go down the rabbit hole of thoughts surrounding experience, betrayal is not one easily avoided. There is an internal betrayal, which I won’t go into right now, and an external betrayal. This is today’s topic.

Betrayal can only exist when you trust a person or group with information or resources, thus giving them power over others. For example, a ruler might have their trusted advisors who run around behind their backs, sharing information, resulting in the ruler being overthrown. Even the brightest leaders have misread a run-of-the-mill sociopath who extracts information for their own gain, in a game they feel they must win at all cost. As losing is the ultimate blow to their very fragile egos. People who sacrifice trust and friendship to -win- —whatever that means– generally lose more along the way than they were capable of realizing. It was lost on them from the very start. This can be a hard truth. The sacrifice is true and honest friendship, support, and companionship. Maybe the most fragile of sacrifices, although not necessarily the most valuable, is trust. We can probably agree it is a foundational element. Once this is lost, know this, you may have won, but your reputation will be tarnished. That is a double loss.

Betrayal is not only an action, it is a lesson. We are always alone in life, we are all we have, and our reputation is part of that. A reputation for being callous will lead to loneliness versus being kind. The matter or material we are made of, be it contaminant or nutritious honey, will mark our lives and the tracks we leave behind. The latter, being kind, requires a great deal of inner strength, intelligence, and patience. Especially with oneself, because kind people are bound to trust the wrong person or people at one point or another. The stakes may be very high. No one is exempt from betrayal, just as everyone has a price. A devastating kiss, sealing conspiracy, the Judas Kiss. The multiple betrayals of being sold by your family and then by the people who bought you, and finally, being sold off to a group of conquerors, having to serve them and their purposes, and establishing a final blow of betrayal to the people who betrayed you several times before. Like the Malinche… that one seemed inevitable. A brother saving himself and his wife by throwing his own sister under the bus, Greenglass betrayed his sister and brother-in-law, Ethel and Julius Rosenberg. They got the chair. The Cold War was a curious time for agents, double agents, and betrayal.

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People always find a way to justify these acts. Betrayals have justifications, even lofty justifications. Such is the case of Brutus who conspired and betrayed Caesar, who was stabbed 23 times; a sacrifice to preserve the Republic, protecting it against the designs of a man who would amass more power and dissolve the Senate. Brutus, who was said to be manipulated into fulfilling his destiny, as magnicide ran in his family. Continue Reading