Almost a month into my Year of Finishing, and I haven’t finished anything yet. Even the schedule of what to finish, and when, isn’t done. What gets finished first, hmm?
What time is now?
I’m amused by the new bosses who have spent the last eight years screaming in the faces of elected officials that their policies are shameful and hurtful and mean, and now, having succeeded in winning significant seats from those they have treated as mortal enemies, now call for civility and bipartisanship. Where was civility when their duly elected opponents were passing their legislation? Where was civility when they were shouting from the gallery and fighting to have courts declare their opponents’ laws illegal and immoral?
What time is now? Is it time for civility and bipartisanship – the latter a code word for “cave to my demands” – or is it simply time to resume the battle, with the battle lines redrawn?
There are ways to fight. There are rants and railings and appeals to what is good and right and shouts from the mountaintop.
And there are gentle stories of what is good and just and right and touches to the heart.
There is something to be said of the rant – especially if it is true – but the gentle goes a longer way in letting the principles sink in. Doesn’t it? As long as the gentle whispers manage to drown out the hateful shouts.
Why do we stage such dramas? What threats really and truly exist in the end? Who conspires and to what end? Are there aliens among us? We are all aliens to those who do not know us. We are all neighbors in comparison to the moon, even more so when you think about Mars.
In a parallel universe, is Willow a wild animal who would flee from me rather than fall asleep comfortably at my side?
There are no parallel universes, only wishful thinking – wondering what would have been had other choices been made. In a world of 7 billion souls, the combination of choices nears infinity, sometimes creating a paralysis of indecision. But indecision is also a decision, and the moment inevitably passes into what might have been.
Rest my eyes or keep on scribbling? I wonder this, many mornings, when I get up early to write. Rest is so tempting: The continued writing may be for naught or it may generate my greatest insight. Most likely the result will be somewhere in between, but it will generate more words than rest would.
A little folding of the arms to rest and poverty is upon us like a thief, and the greatest thief of all is the ever ubiquitous bandit of time. Time bandits: the video game, the internet troll, the (dare I say it so near to Green Bay) football game, the trivia contest, thieves all.
World peace foiled by bread and circuses. Why work for world peace when my stomach is full and the game is on? Those are someone else’s troubles – no one is shooting at me or my mother, and the grocery store is well-stocked, so why worry about famine half a world away?
Why indeed? Because compared against Alpha Centauri, the hungry child over there is as near as the dog curled up now but still snoring by my side. And if the dog is comfortable and fed, why can’t the child?
What an interesting journey one can make simply by following a pen crossing a page, recording whatever meandering thought comes out of these fingers. The dog twitches in her sleep, running across a field somewhere she has never been.
Well, then, right now: What shall it be?
Journey to Far Metaphor
Reach for the stars: A man’s reach must exceed his grasp, or what’s a metaphor?
A story is a living thing: It begins, goes on an adventure, and comes to an end. Along the way are expectations, unexpected twists, and – if it goes well enough – a resolution and satisfying conclusion, for who wants a life, metaphorical or otherwise, that does not end well?