UNANSWERED QUESTION…or unanswerable?

Why does anyone care what someone else

believes? Unless their belief

leads to destructiveness to others, why

can we not respect the lifeline

to which they choose to cling?

I say go for it; good for you.

Evolution’s design for kinship selection

and its genetic preference for

similarities may have left us hardwired to

self-destruct. If so, hat will be a sad day.

Honesty, transparency, mutual respect,

curbing our own violence on the streets, in the home,

in our language, in our schools and video games,

our hearts, and in our leaders all remain decent

goals. What is indecent in the apparent inevitability

of our hardwiring winning.

In the words of Loren Eiseley:

Beginning on some winter night the snow will fall

steadily for a thousand years and hush in

its falling the spore cities whose seed has flown…The

long trail of Halley’s comet…will pass like a ghostly

match flame over the unwatched grave of the cities…*

*Eiseley,  The Invisible Pyramid

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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