Darkest Night, lightest day
Here in Wyoming, the sky is different than in your neck of the woods. For all its negative qualities Wyoming’s sky almost makes up for all of them. Here one can watch sunset, and moonrise. Here one can be transported into the vastness of infinite space. Here one can realize they are nothing without meditations and ruminations. Here one can become a speck upon the ball of lint. Here one is overwhelmed each morning and each evening.
That of course is why I am telling you this. You do not know what you ask of me, to take you here and see the problems of Wyoming, because Senator, the problems are empty, as is the sky. I would recommend you go back to DC where you belong, where you are enclosed by domes and pocketbooks. Where importance is something thrust upon you, something bought and sold. As for me, I shall stay here, and watch how these people cope with the emptiness. I shall see them root and fuck. I shall see them contemplate themselves to gunshot wounds. I shall see them slit their wrists. I shall see them break. I shall see them live.
It is not a pleasant duty for which I have dedicated my life. It is not a happy place to be a watcher, but for Science, God, and Country I shall observe, and report. Howl.
A question or three
“Why must everyone die father?”
The kindly old man, named Abraham looked down at his son, bound upon the altar to his foreign God, “My son,” said he, “death, is part of life. You see. Sacrifices, are offered because they are something blessed. So too are we. We are blessed, only because we have a finite amount of time in which to make choices. Therefor our own impending death creates value, we have to make choices, separate great from good, good from so-so, and so-so from not so good.”
With that he scrapped the sacrificial blade again, no Mesopotamian was he, but instead the first exile, he had chosen a value higher than country, that of ideology, and God.
“Why are these values good? What use is there for hierarchy?”
He thought of that, wondering at Isaac his famous son, and chose his words carefully, “Remember your brother Ishmael, yet I say I have but one son, you Isaac. Don’t you see, I have chosen the more valuable one as a Gift to the one who Shalt Be.”
“What makes me a more pleasing sacrifice? Why am I better to kill than my brother? Why must you differentiate between the two?”
And with that Abraham could stand it no longer, the knife came down, toward the boy’s throat.
There is more to life than dying characters
“Have you heard of such a thing as love Mr. Higgins?”
The old teacher nodded at his bright young student.
“And what have you to say on the matter?”
He smiled, in an odd way, “Well, Donald. There are things to think about. For example, may I ask what,” he paused, smiling further, “or should I say… who, brought up this topic of conversation?”
“I think you well know that. Don’t you sir?”
“I do,” he nodded, and continued, “I know you have looked at Ms. Poe for three long days.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, blushing from happiness, not embarrassment (a feat the author could never do, at least not when the fairer sex is concerned).
The old man smiled, “What is it that strikes you about her? What is it about her that makes your heart leap.”
“Sir, it is an indescribable thing.”
Mr. Higgins looked at the boy, “I’m an English teacher. I know you can describe this.”
“True,” said Donald, and continued, “Angela Poe is an angel.”
“There have been many angels before Donald, one’s that are in fact pieces of the Throne of the Blessed one, Holy be he, one’s that are cupidic, ones that avenge the Holy will, and devils too. Be more specific, describe the concreteness of this attraction.”
“I,” he began, unsure of himself, “I know that to others she is simply a,” he couldn’t bear to say it, yet he said it anyways, “another girl, but to me. She seems to be a immaculate statue, carved out as an ode to beauty…”
“Stop. What is Beauty? What is beautiful about this statue to an… abstraction.”
“It is,” he paused, “oh, I see sir. Let me go again.”
“Rather.”
“She is an immaculate marble statue carved out by some god to represent caring. It is a healing maiden, a Virgin Mary, but with spunk and love.”
“Love. How is this love manifest in spunk dear Donald?”
“You are right,” he said, “spunk, she will heal, she will bear forth the Christ Child whether God wants her to or not. She will manifest the Will of the Holy One Blessed be He whether or not He wills it or not.”
“That is sacrilege, but most love it. Continue.”
“Where shall I continue sir?”
“Where ever you feel like it.”
He breathed deeply, “okay. In her very existence you see the propensity to be compassionate no matter what.”
“I think you’ve already said that.”
“Well… Sir. That’s because it is true. I love her for her compassion. I love her for her willingness to… I don’t know sir.”
“You do. The Idea and the Deed. That is where you are headed, or should be if I’ve taught you anything.”
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “she is the idea, that is idealism, along with the deed, praxis. She knows what needs to be done, and she will do it whether it is accepted or not.”
“Is that love or tyranny?”
“Both,” Donald said, misty eyed and smiling. Mr. Higgins could do not but nod.
Wisdom poetry
“And what did he mean by this?” asked the Rabbi.
The student looked up to him, and said, “that Abraham is the… what kind of spice?”
“Does the kind of spice matter? What is the point of the text?”
“The text is infinite,” said the boy, twisting his tefilim.
“So what?” asked the Rabbi, “Does that matter? What is the point at essence?”
“That’s for you to know,” said the boy.
The Rabbi’s face darkened, his earlocks practically curled, “I ask these questions, for I do not know the answers.”
“Abraham makes Isaac a solemn sacrifice, but he does it believing, knowing that the Holy one, blessed be He shall resurrect Isaac, or stop the sacrifice in some way.”
“Or?”
“Or that the command of the Holy One, blessed is He is so all powerful, all encompesing that he has to obey."
“Which would the Christians believe?”
“The first.”
“Which do you believe?”
“The second.”
And with that the Rabbi slammed the TaNaK shut, and whipped out a cigar, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“The Christians would believe one or the other.”
“The first,” said the student, stepping away from the smoke, “I already said, the first.”
“We would believe both. Saying the text is infinite, and living into an omnipotent text are two different things.”
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