Where do I start today’s story? The best I can guess is last year…
Easter weekend fell seven months after a president that *unquestionably won more votes than any other candidate in history declared his “patience had run out”. (*It is literally unquestionable in that it’s socially discouraged to articulate the question and in 2022 the distance from social pressure to legal force is only a matter of power, not law.)
My continued existence was an affront to his sensibilities. I would be corrected. To that purpose he would wield the full force of the State. It was the first time an American president implied that I, an American citizen, only exist within the bounds a president is willing to “tolerate”. I see myself as a citizen, he reduced me to “subject” or “civilian” or perhaps “ward”, I took that personally.
After some faffing about I got my shit together. God told me to stand firm. I mustered the minimal courage to do that simple task. No more fence sitting, it was time to nut up or shut up. Moreover, who was I to bitch? Men have been called to die in battle, I was called to jeopardize my salary and face paperwork hassles. Hardly, the worst of fates. If that’s all to be asked of me, I’m lucky.
I’m happy there was a moment in time when it all became clear. As far as I’m concerned, if a needle forced into my vein doesn’t cross the line, there is no line. There is always a point when one more submission is too many. How many poor sinners have seen that moment in the rear view mirror? Incidentally, if you wanted the vaccine, that’s completely fine with me. Your choices are yours, mine are mine. My decision has no bearing on yours. Such self-reflection is probably how I caught the eye of Modor and why “tolerance” for me had expired.
Now it’s half a year later and I’m still standing. I’ve neither been fired nor died. The president who lacked patience with me has failed to drive me to penury and his imagined terror didn’t lead to my death. He’s moved on to other concerns; among them fomenting war. Good luck with that.
What’s next on my part? Forgiveness? Wow, talk about a challenge! To take a punch to the face is so much easier than to forgive the bully that threw the punch. Lets not try to imagine it in some candy coated way, “bullying” is what it was.
Even if I can’t forgive right now, with some recovery I can work towards that plateau. It will soon be spring and that will help. I can’t wait to see flowers and tree buds. It will come. I know it. I will see the earth renew and I will go out there and feel young and light like a yearling fawn. If a sick society fades in its deathbed, it’ll have to stay inside with the shades drawn and imaginary fears locking the door. It’ll suffer or thrive without me. I did not cause decline and I will not shoulder the burden of its self inflicted misery.
Before spring rejuvenates me I’ve got to ride out the last of winter. Winters come in all flavors. This wasn’t a mild one. The president cursed me to a “winter of severe illness and death for the unvaccinated — for themselves, their families and the hospitals they’ll soon overwhelm”. It was the mad cackling of a bully and of course virtually nothing he said happened, but I did have frozen pipes and a broken tractor.
So it came to Easter. I was and remain alive and fine… and just as Curmudgeonly as ever. “Winter of death”? Fuck ‘em!
What a conundrum! It was a Holy day and I cannot forgive. I am in error. I will someday forgive, but not yet. I want those fuckers to burn!
As is common in times of tribulation, I sought connection to nature. This is never a bad idea.
The best guess of science is that anatomically modern humans, a clunky phrase of great import, came on the scene 200,000 years ago. Theoretically, a smelly ape-like being some 200 millennia gone and I have the same brain. If we could cross the vast gulf of culture and language, we could sit by the campfire and talk about the things we have in common. The more we have in common, the better life I’d be living right now. We could talk about fishing. We could talk about hunting. We could talk about fire. If I met a caveman and we could get along enough to find a rapport, we’d both laugh if one of us ripped a fart. I don’t care who you are, farts are funny.
I would love to have a discussion with primitive man. It would be cathartic. My troubles would seem stupid and self inflicted to him. If I tried to piss and moan about taxes and politics it would seem retarded and unaware; the conversation would always veer back to our interactions with the lovely planet we both inhabit. Also, can you imagine the ecological knowledge he’d have at hand? He’d know more about a late spring or rabbit hunting than I’ll ever know. And what deeper knowledge of the universe would he have to share? I can barely taste the hint of the infinite, but he’d have lived it. A man who has slept under the stars knows something one who’s slept in a house doesn’t.
I grabbed a steel and some flint, stuffed it in my pocket, and went for a walk. Flint and steel puts me in the Iron Age; around 1,200 BC or so. Sorry, paleolithic man, I’m a bit tired today. I can’t go back that far. Maybe we’ll have a conversation in August, after a dry spell. Right now my brain is too weak and modern, also the forest is wet.
Stay tuned for part 2…