“You miserable, maladjusted misanthropic dumbbell bastards have really done it this time. I hope you’re happy and proud of yourselves. There’s no turning back.”
With my eyes blinded by the flash and my ears still ringing from the sound, as the smoke cleared and the dust and debris settled, from my improvised foxhole I eventually was able to see the huge hole in the ground, where once the school had been. A second look showed me Jubal Early’s horn-rimmed glasses amidst the rubble where I saw him last. They looked like the only recognizable remnants of the event. The smell and sight of destruction was everywhere.
With my ears and mind still ringing, one of Pearlie Mae’s favorite sayings, kept resounding, “Our lives are limited by what we can’t imagine and what we refuse to believe.”
OK, then. Here’s the deal.
Telling a story is a transient thing. Writing it down is forever. Myths, fables, legends, parables, and pot-boilers leave us to draw our own conclusions. Everything is an allegory. We do not know what we do not know.
There has always been and always will be, some degree of separation between the thinkers and the doers. It’s probably a good thing that the gap between them shrinks or widens depending on time, place, circumstance and situation.
For example, each and every Adam and Eve has their own Cain and Abel. Every Abraham complicates things with his Sarah and Isaac and his Hagar and Ishmael and eventually Mohammed and his Islamic multiple derivatives. Then in turn, Moses, Solomon, David, Jesus, Judas, Thomas, Peter, Paul, Mary and Mary Magdalene, all take a shot at it. Even Socrates who never wrote anything down had his important thoughts and arguments. And he had Plato, Pythagoras and Aristotle who could actually read, write and collect stuff to play it forward.
Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel, Immanuel Kant, Arthur Schopenhauer, Soren Kierkegaard and Franz Kafka were followed by Friedrich Nietzsche, Jean-Paul Sartre, Martin Heidigger and Martin Buber. These thinker’s thoughts in turn were transformed into action by guys like Richard Wagner, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini and Michinomiya who later became Emperor Hirohito with a lot of help from Hideki Toyo. In spite of all this thought and action the categorical imperative of existence was still the issue.
Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels left their dialectic materialism to Vladimir Ilyitch Lenin, Leon Trotsky and Joseph Stalin to sort out their best advice and Molotov, Khrushchev, Gorbachov and Putin to pick up the pieces.
Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton left George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee with John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon and eventually the George Bushes, the under brushes and leaves of grass with nothing but the baked pears.
As far as can be determined, Joseph Smith, with the tablets he found under a tree, with a divisive but not necessarily divine interpretation and implementation by Brigham Young and a line of camp followers were left with a dead sparrow they don’t know what to do with and no place to bury it.
At this point in the story, the Literatti and even the Inteligensia will realize that I’ve only begun to mine the depth of the problem. However, I imagine that under the firmament of the sky, the ground, the deep blue sea, and the entire universe, the Ignoranti will remain so.
What often seems to happen is, some asshole shows up with a plan of action based on some small part of a seemingly sensible story. Then armed with a substantial amount of capital of various sorts and a lot of political support coupled with all the best intentions in the world; they just go ahead and fuck up the whole thing again.
Game over, Man.
And when somebody smarter than me says, “Throw that on your trash pile of knowledge”, I guess it means I’ve got to have one.
How do I decide where to put it and keep it? And will it really make any difference?
The benefit of the silence and the left over conscious limitations of a huge explosion like an atomic bomb blast and the resulting deaths that should not have happened, is an interval of time of respite and reflection. That piece of temporal space is normally never available in life’s hell-bent succession of fear, fantasy, food and defecation. Anxiety, angst and aggravation are just a part of day-to-day living.
When my Dad was talking about someone or something of dubious or questionable value to anyone, anybody or anything, he used to say they were, “useless as tits on a boar shoat”. I never could fathom this idle erudite attempt to explain failed relationships. But, sometimes it reminds me of things or people I know, too, and I think and feel the same way.
Maybe when I grow up, I’ll get a revelation or an epiphany and things will clear up and be different. Or maybe if my luck holds up, I’ll just finish up this valley and never-ending trail of shit and giggles on the sweetest-smelling end of someone else’s trash pile.
I don’t know.
One thing I do know for sure, it was just not where I wanted to be. In the realm of human survival when considering or debating religion or politics and there are questions for which you or your opponent have only one right answer, they are better left unasked.