BIG RED RIDER
Not so long ago, in the normal
world of things, a little woman
on her way to visit grandma met
a big red wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“You can trust me,” he said with
a grin, “She’s my grandma too and
I want to see who she voted for.”
The little woman became scared when
the wolf’s teeth began to show from
under the sheep’s pearly white skin,
and she feared for grandma’s health.
“I’m going on a picnic” she protested,
“on a restful picnic.” “Well who did you
vote for, my pretty?”
“I cannot tell a lie: Bernie.”
Big Red huffed and he puffed and he
grew red in the face too. “Can you prove
you’re a citizen and not a wetback?
Your hair is black, unlike mine, so
the ICE team may grab you and grandma
too. If you’re not for me you’re ag’in me.”
Oh where was the brave hunter who
would step out and save her? Was he
already fired for being too sharp?
“Fie fie, sir” she cried out hotly—
“How many of the 10 Commandments
have you broken in office? Mueller,
my brave hunter will arrive at last.”
So perhaps the normal world of things
will return without whimper and
the denizens of Make Believe Land
will shine with the child’s regained hope
that love can be gentle, respectful and
honest, and that truth is no longer a
carelessly tossed flapjack.
Is evolution a sop to the belief that the world makes sense? Why do research findings peter out out after awhile? Discoveries often turn to sand, slip through our fingers, and are non-replicable. It is well known that man is a maker of narrative stories that help him explain to himself what transpires in this world. Reality may be benevolent or malevolent or disinterested or non existent. Belief in Free will and the soul/self are falling into disrepute. Time as we experience it is deemed a misperception. I recall one day in the peception lab in college suddenly envisioning science as the garden path that leads no- where except around the bend into the grave. Maybe that’s why we die so young; the garden path needs to accompany us to our grave. Should it run out prior to the grave, then the individual, robbed of his own carefully nursed narrative before the story’s ending sans comfort or without heaven–or without anything–might be troubled!
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