Author: Dan Sanders

I'm a dreamer, a weaver of words, actor, picture maker, memory keeper

From the Shores of Styx

A baby cries
from the shores of Styx.

A child cries
from the darkness of a ghetto.

A baby cries,
and a child cries.

A mother cries
as a father dies.

A war starts.
Jobs end.
A house is lost.
A father dies.

The child grows.
The child says why,
but the man knows,
like those before him knew.

And so
the child sighed
as the man dies.

From the shores of Styx,
from the deepest part of Stygian,
a baby cries again—
screaming out of the darkness,
crawling out of the gloom,
refusing to keep the circle.

The child from the darkest recesses of Stygian
screams: I will fight for light,
and though I may lose
and die alone in the dark,
I will have created a glimmer
of hope.

As the man cries,
the woman dies,
and once again
a child rises from the darkness of Stygian,
screaming: I will create light.

And the circle remains
unbroken.

Author’s Note
In Greek mythology, Styx is both a goddess and the river that forms the boundary between the world of the living and the underworld. The rivers Styx, Phlegethon, Acheron, Lethe, and Cocytus all converge in a great marsh at the center of the underworld. The word Stygian refers to the deep darkness associated with that realm.

2 responses to “From the Shores of Styx”

  1. John Blair Avatar
    John Blair

    In this circle, is there any hope? Or is acceptance of the circle of life hope?

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    Reply
    1. Dan Sanders Avatar
      Dan Sanders

      That life continues is part of the hope, and that the child continues to break free from the darkness, proclaiming they will create light from the darkness, is more of the hope. Of course, the unbroken circle of despair could be an idea of lost hope.

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      Reply

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

A valuable Lesson Learned

A valuable Lesson Learned Ramble.

Learning is valuable—about love, good people, and, unfortunately, bad ones: people lacking a crucial human quality. Some call it a heart, others a soul. As the Dalai Lama said, “Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.”

I recently learned a hard lesson about self-publishing—not about the publishing itself,the ready-for-print part, the nuts and bolts of it: learning about print, color, page count, the spine the cover  and a weird little item called a widow, which is when a word gets left over at the end of a page and gets pushed to the next page. That was all difficult enough. Publishing, as a good friend who worked in the business put it, “Publishing is not for the weak of heart.”

Writing a book is hard, and writing about yourself is even harder, especially when recounting a story from 50 years ago. Living it nearly killed me; writing it nearly finished the job.

And then I finally got the book on Amazon and wanted to learn more about reviews and promoting my book, so I joined the KDP (Kindle Direct Publishing) community for writers. I soon learned that while 50 percent of those members are good and honest folks wanting to help a rookie writer, it is also populated by scumbag con artists who will scream death and destruction, and forever banishment from Amazon if you break the rules.

And while it is true that Amazon did get into some trouble a few years ago by allowing fake reviews, not just of books but on everything, from air fresheners to underwear, and for good reasons, they have tightened their review process. But it is not the death toll of you and your book if you unintentionally seem to cross the line. What Amazon does not want is for me to pay Jack and Jill to write a review that says Dan Sanders is the greatest writer since John Steinbeck or Charles Dickens. Even if it’s true, Jack and Jill need to decide thta on their own.

In the KDP community, while most folks are good and helpful, I ran into a few who responded with alarm, warning me I had made a mistake but offering to help. They never mention a fee upfront; instead, they engage in several emails before finally revealing a line like, “For a small fee, I can help you out.” One clue is that although many different names are involved, the emails all look like they came from the same cookie-cutter template.

I was so concerned that I asked my first reviewer to remove their review because it was from someone I worked with 40 years ago and haven’t seen since. A scammer claimed that if someone knows you, Amazon will suspect collusion, but I learned that while Amazon is strict, it isn’t unreasonable.

The main reason I wanted to write this is not to make a Mea culpa, but to warn others trying or considering self-publishing. I don’t want anyone to go in as I did—a lamb to the slaughterhouse. I believed everything would be good, but like any competitive profession, it can be underhanded and cutthroat.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

I’m On Goodreads

I woke up to sunshine and clear skies, and the news that five people I’ve never met are already reading my book. I guess this thing is officially out in the wild. If you use Goodreads, you can add I Was There to your “Want to Read” or “Currently Reading” shelf. It helps the algorithm gods notice the little guys.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/249304682-i-was-there

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

Nixon lies + Trump parallel Morning Ramble,

Every time I look back at Nixon’s Vietnam “we’re winning” routine, I hear an echo.

Here’s the Nixon highlight reel: • “Vietnamization is working.” (It wasn’t.) • “Peace is at hand.” (It wasn’t.) • “The enemy is weakening.” (They weren’t.) • “I have a secret plan.” (He didn’t.) • “We’re withdrawing because we’re winning.” (We weren’t.) • “The bombing is working.” (It didn’t change the terms.)

And now we’ve got a whole new era of leaders who pull the same trick — declare victory, deny reality, and hope nobody notices the smoke pouring out of the engine room.

Boston folks can smell that a mile away, and I hope the United States still can.

History doesn’t repeat, but the sales pitch sure does.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

My Easter Ramble.

This moment comes from a stretch of my life when I was being moved across the country by U.S. Marshals—an experience that was tense, surreal, and, somehow, funny. I learned early on that if I could get the Marshals to crack a smile, the miles went by a little easier. This particular memory landed on Easter Sunday, somewhere in the endless wheat fields of Kansas, when the only thing to do was look out the window and try to keep the mood human.

“The one day I am sure of on this trip was Easter Sunday, and I remember that because as we traveled through the wheat fields of Kansas—miles and miles of nothing but wheat—I said to the Marshals, ‘You guys know it’s Easter?’ and one replied sarcastically, ‘Yeah, ya’ want to go to church?’ I replied, ‘No, I’m not much on churchgoing, but I thought we might have an Easter egg hunt, and I’ll be glad to play the part of the egg.’ This was the second time I made them laugh.”

For the whole story, the complete book follows the bouncing link at the bottom. But to help avoid Amazon’s paranoid algorithm, I’ll borrow a line from the Grateful Dead:

“Just one thing I ask of you, just one thing for me

Please forget you know my name, my darling Sugaree…”

Shake it, shake it, Sugaree — just don’t tell them that you know me.

Here’s the link to the full book: Here’s the link to the full book: https://a.co/d/016MrqUQ

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

My Book, “I Was There”

This book took years. Not because I was writing every day, but because I wasn’t. I’d circle back, pick up a thread, lose it again. Life got in the way. So did doubt. So did the internet. Heck, sometimes cleaning my kitchen had to take priority. Below are a couple of sections from two of the first chapters. The book is available in both paperback and Kindle formats. You don’t need a Kindle device or a special Kindle account to read my book. Anyone can read it on a computer, phone, or tablet using either the free Kindle app or the Kindle Cloud Reader, which opens right in your web browser with no download needed.

I hope you’ll enjoy the read. Those who have read it so far have told me how much they have enjoyed it.

From Chapter 2

“Several years earlier, I had begun writing letters to my draft board. Lyndon Johnson was still president, Nixon waiting in the wings. The letters weren’t meant for Johnson, but I imagined him reading them anyway—grimacing, maybe, before tossing them aside. The draft board wrote back a few times, reminding me I was deferred under 3‑A college status. Eventually, they recalculated me as 1‑A. Combat‑ready. And I welcomed it. You can’t refuse what hasn’t been offered. I was done hiding behind loopholes.”

From Chapter 3

Inside, the induction ceremony began. The room smelled of sweat. The air was thick with the breath of boys pretending not to shake. The recruiter’s voice was flat, rehearsed, like he’d stopped listening years ago.

“Please repeat after me…”

“I do solemnly swear…”

Repeat. Repeat? Hell, I could barely breathe.

“…that I will bear true faith…”

And suddenly I wasn’t in Whitehall anymore. I was back on the football field, hearing my coach yell, “Go in hell‑bent for leather, Little Sandy!” My dad was Big Sandy. The coach used that nickname to rile me up. Hell‑bent for leather — without fear.

My heart picked up the chant until it drowned out everything else.

Then came the words: Step forward.

I sat down.”

For the whole story, follow this link https://a.co/d/016lhY1F

Rating: 1 out of 5.

My Book Has Been Released

Dan Sanders grew up on Staten Island and learned early how to navigate the edges of things—family, faith, war, and the long road toward becoming himself. He spent years in radio, activism, and community work before settling in the Boston area, where he writes about the moments that refuse to stay quiet. He lives in what he calls Rambling Harbor with his cat, Shianna, and continues to tell the stories that shaped him, one honest line at a time.

The Road to “I Was There”

It didn’t happen all at once. It wasn’t a straight shot. It was a long road — with detours, breakdowns, and a few stretches where I didn’t touch the wheel at all.

This book took years. Not because I was writing every day, but because I wasn’t. I’d circle back, pick up a thread, lose it again. Life got in the way. So did doubt. So did the internet.

But the story never left. It waited. And every time someone asked — “Are you still working on it?” or “When’s the book coming out?” — it reminded me that I was still on the road.

So thank you. To everyone who kept asking. To those who read the early chapters, who saw the fog and the mountains and said, “Keep going.”

The book is out now. It’s called “I Was There”. Because I was. And now, so are you.

And who knows what comes next — maybe that’s the best part. Maybe even another book

follow this link to the Amazon page: https://a.co/d/01jMzMsm

About Me
I’m a dreamer with some rough edges, a word‑slinger, an actor, a picture‑maker, and a guy who hangs onto the stories that don’t always behave. I write from a small harbor shaped by memory, Boston weather, and all the quiet corners where truth sits down and refuses to move.
I Was There is one road I’ve walked. There’ll be others. There always are.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

Rambling Harbor — Evening Edition Ramble AKA WTF Again

Tonight’s tide brought in a story I wish I didn’t recognize.

Evening settles over the Harbor like a worn jacket, the kind you keep by the door because it knows your shape better than you do. The light goes soft, the gulls quiet down, and the world finally stops shouting long enough for you to hear the small truths rattling around in your own chest. That’s when the news found me tonight — not with a bang, but with that familiar sting that comes when history gets pushed around like furniture someone’s tired of looking at.

Another round of funding carved out of Black museums. A Black heritage sign quietly taken down in Boston, as if memory itself were something optional, something you could tuck away when it makes the wrong people uneasy. It didn’t surprise me, but it sure as hell set something off — not a blaze, just that low, steady rumble from a place that’s been paying attention for too many years.

And this isn’t the first time I’ve felt that rumble. A few years back, I resigned from an organization I’d given time and heart to. Not because I heard the man say anything — I never did. This was all online, all at a distance. But then I read he was running for political office in Texas, and one of his proud public stances was opposition to what was then being called “critical race theory.” That was enough. I didn’t need a speech or a meeting or a debate. I just knew I wasn’t going to stay in a place led by someone who wanted to shut down the teaching of systemic racism and the harder truths of American history. If the truth makes you uncomfortable, maybe the problem isn’t the truth. So I walked. Quietly. Cleanly. And I didn’t look back.

And now here we are again, only the stage is bigger, and the stakes are heavier. Grants pulled from the Massachusetts Museum of African American History because the work doesn’t “align with priorities.” Heritage markers taken down like they were never there. Museums and cultural programs frozen out because they dare to tell the story straight. And the language is always the same — “divisive concepts,” “ideological concerns,” “restoring sanity.” Whenever politicians start talking about restoring sanity, you can bet they’re about to erase something.

It’s the same old dance: erase, rename, sanitize, repeat. Pretend it’s about budgets. Pretend it’s about neutrality. Pretend it’s anything except what it is — a slow tightening of the blindfold. And the people doing the tightening always swear they’re the ones protecting us from indoctrination. Meanwhile, the museums they’re defunding are the ones holding the receipts, the records, the stories this country has spent centuries trying to bury.

And what really gets me is the déjà vu of it all. I’ve seen this movie before. I’ve walked out of rooms — and online spaces — over it. And now it’s happening on a national scale, with institutions and memory and public truth on the line. Every time someone says “critical race theory,” what they really mean is “stop telling the parts of the story we don’t like.” Every time a sign comes down, or a grant disappears, they’re hoping the story goes with it.

So here I am, evening deepening over Rambling Harbor, the tide pulling at the edges of the day, and I’m thinking about how fragile memory becomes when people in power decide it’s optional. I’m thinking about how many times we’ve had to fight just to keep the truth in the daylight. And I’m thinking about how history isn’t fragile at all — but apparently some people are.

That’s the ramble tonight. The Harbor’s quiet, but the headlines aren’t. And somewhere out there, the truth is still trying to speak, even if someone keeps reaching for the dimmer switch.

From Rambling Harbor, I ask again: what do we do now?

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

One of the Unrecorded

I was just doing some research on this book, and as I’ve said, I’m horrible with dates. I always have been, as they drift into ancient history, they become a lost, whirling maze of amazement and often befuddled amusement. Just now, I was looking for someone from my CCNV days, and after a multitude of different search sources and avenues, including AI, it came back.

 “You’re trying to find someone who lived in a world that didn’t preserve itself well — CCNV, Catholic Worker, Berrigan circles, early women clergy. Those people didn’t leave digital trails.”

 I laughed aloud and said in my best Robert Deniro Taxi voice, “You talkin’ to me?” I know. I’m one of them, lost to time, memory, but maybe not to history.

About a year ago, I spent several weeks with on-and-off communication with various federal agencies trying to get copies of my arrest and prison records. I started with the bureau of prisons The Bureau of Prisons stated that they do not retain records beyond ten years,  They gave me a link to the FOIA ( Freedom of Information Act) the freedom of information act said that because of my type of cases any records would most likely be held by the National Archives they may have retained documentation related to this type of case. I wrote to the National Archives, but have not heard back. I am willing to bet no one has ever tried so hard to prove they are a criminal. Even though the law I broke needed to be broken, and I still would love to see my whole records including as Arlo Guthrie put it in the song “Alice’s Restaurant”, a black and white 8 by 10 glossy.

So yeah, I did and still do live in a world that doesn’t preserve itself well.

Part of me hopes we’re not all lost to history. And part of me thinks maybe that’s the way it was always meant to go.

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Rating: 1 out of 5.

Super Bowl halftime show.

“6 US states plan on boycotting Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl halftime show.”

The second I saw the headline, I already knew the roster of usual suspects: Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Utah, and West Virginia. Of course, it’s them. A few months back, Hall of Fame running back Eric Dick— er—son popped off about the NFL picking Bad Bunny for halftime. These reactions all orbit the same tired idea about who “belongs” in American traditions.

Dick -er-son said in October, “If he don’t like the US, don’t come here to perform.”

Genius stuff from Dick, truly. Puerto Rico became part of the United States in 1898 under the Treaty of Paris. You’d think a man who made a living reading defenses could read a history book, too.

And this whole “if you criticize the country, leave it” routine? I heard that garbage when I opposed the Vietnam War. Loving your country means telling it when it’s wrong and sticking around to help fix it. Mark Twain nailed it: “Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.”

So to Alabama, Georgia, Kentucky, Louisiana, Utah, and West Virginia: I won’t miss you. The halftime show won’t miss you. The ratings won’t miss you. But your own citizens will miss out on a couple of hours to breathe, laugh, and forget the world’s nonsense.

And if the alternative is listening to Kid Crock belt out,

“Some say that’s statutory, but I say it’s mandatory,”

then boycotting Bad Bunny is a hell of a way to show your love for America.

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Morning Ramble: Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the Strange Weather of Culture

Morning Ramble: Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the Strange Weather of Culture

Some days, the cultural weather rolls in sideways, and you find yourself watching people online argue about whether Bad Bunny or Kid Rock is the “real” entertainer. This debate misses the core point: what matters isn’t which entertainer is more legitimate, but the type of culture each represents. Comparing them is like comparing a lighthouse to a lawnmower — both make noise, but only one helps you find your way home.

Bad Bunny — Benito — is out there bending sound like light through a prism, turning reggaetón, trap, pop, and whatever else he feels like into something that feels alive. He’s got Grammys, stadiums, and a global fanbase that sings in Spanish with their whole chest, even if they only understand every third word. He’s fluid, political when he wants to be, joyful when he chooses to be, and unbothered by the borders other people try to draw around him.

Kid Rock, meanwhile, is still trying to convince the world he’s the same guy from the “Cowboy” era, even though the world has rotated a few dozen times since then. The swagger hardened into shouting, the rebellion calcified into grievance, and the lyrics… well, let’s just say they don’t exactly age like wine. More like something you’d find in a forgotten cooler behind a shed.

And that’s why—let me be crystal clear—I would choose the Super Bowl halftime show over Kid Rock and TPUSA. Not out of spite or politics, but because the moment feels like a reflection on what culture can grow into, not what it leaves behind. It comes down to the music, the message, the energy—the difference between expanding the world or holding it still.

Bad Bunny writes about identity, heartbreak, joy, pride, and the messy business of being human. Kid Rock writes about… well, sometimes things you wouldn’t want on your search history. One artist is building bridges; the other is burning daylight.

But the funny thing about music is that it’s weather. It shifts. It tells you what season the culture is in. Bad Bunny is a warm front rolling in from the Caribbean, reshaping the atmosphere. Kid Rock is a cold gust from a bar that closed at 1 a.m. and forgot to turn off the neon sign.

Maybe that’s the whole point: choosing between them isn’t really about music — it’s about the kind of world we want to live in. Are we supporting a culture that grows and remixes itself, or one that clings to the past and resists change? This is the real choice at the heart of the argument.

Anyway, that’s what washed up on the harbor today. The tide brings what it brings.

Have a good morning. As the Super Bowl approaches—a time that should be about sports, not politics—I’ll keep exploring the truth about why Bad Bunny, Kid Rock, and the halftime show matter in this cultural conversation.

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Mentors

Mentors can come from the docks, the back roads and back alleys, or, surprisingly, a monastery in Kentucky. Thomas Merton was one of mine. He wasn’t my only mentor, but he was a steady voice that helped me find clarity.

He was born in 1915 in Prades, France—a place distant from here, and even further removed from the Trappist life he ultimately embraced. Throughout his life, he authored 50 books, wrote 2,000 poems, and kept journals that revealed a relentless pursuit of personal growth.

What I admired wasn’t just that he was a monk. It was the strength underneath. He questioned everything, including himself. He spent time in silence, listening to things most of us drown out with noise, drinking, TV, or anything else we use to avoid facing ourselves.

He wasn’t afraid to say he didn’t have all the answers. Sometimes, he wasn’t even sure he was asking the right questions. That kind of honesty can surprise you and help you see things more clearly.

He taught me that solitude isn’t about escaping. It’s about taking care of yourself, like cleaning a boat so it keeps moving. He showed me that silence isn’t empty; it’s where change happens. He also taught me that being human is slow, difficult work, often done without recognition and against challenges.

I’ve had other mentors—some loud, some quiet, some unexpected. But Merton taught me how to be still without losing myself, how to listen, and how to stay honest even when the truth is hard to accept.

Every year on his birthday, I remember him. Though he was born in France in 1915 and eventually became a Kentucky monk, he somehow found his way into my journey. Even from behind monastery walls, he found ways to help others see new possibilities.

We don’t choose all our mentors. Some arrive unexpectedly, shaped by life, and turn out to be just what we need to keep going.

Now, fifty years later, after running up and down many roads, I find myself once again sitting in silence. Being alone is sometimes the hardest part—quiet, remembering who I have been, and, most importantly, who I am. I sometimes drift with the tide, or swim against it when necessary, here on the shores of Rambling Harbor.

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