The Tyranny of Cool

At the oppressive party made more unbearable by the surrounding cadre of extroverts effortlessly chatting away through yet another round of spontaneous merry-making, Simon made his way around the large room, picking up random objects - little trinkets, souvenirs - twirling them about in his hand; when that failed to assuage his anxiety, he would sample the available chairs or stand perched in a corner taking in the dimensions, half-hoping to not drawn attention to himself and half-needing Terrence and the Old Soul to stand guard nearby. It was a typical Saturday night affair, the effete young crowd feigning energy and excitement, fervently gesturing to one another as they gossiped about professors and other local celebrities, dawning those affected voices that drove Simon crazy, so needlessly advertising their rarefied intelligence to anyone who would listen. Did you hope to take Dr. Werner's seminar on modern warfare? You really should. You really must. But then, of course, you'll want to do his sequel course on power-dynamics and peace-making in the age of terror. You'll be hooked - but don't go near psychology - it's  ticking time-bomb with the present chairperson...I've got an internship for the summer (how about you all?) and after that I'm doing a semester in Rome...Actually the three of us are...If you have the chance, do come see us at our summer retreat in Vermont - will you? There's a killer band playing tonight down in P-town. I went shopping today as best I could, but it's nothing like New York. Oh look....someone should really introduce those drips to a controlled substance or two. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes and ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Holding court as usual amid all this chatter was someone named Drew or Drake or Donald or Dudley - one of those dashingly forward individuals always at the center of attention and who seem to have the last word or the punch line for otherwise tepid banter. The big D could be heard, at various intervals, dispensing advice, issuing edicts, making snap judgments on education, style, fashion with his nothing-if-not-glib, off-the-cuff remarks: Oh don't take that course - it's a dud. You should really hang out more with Ken - he's just your type. Everyone needs to stop wearing purple as of now. Yes, doll, I'll have another shot of that. Ha. Ha. Ha. After about an hour and a half of such boorish, faux-raucous conversation and canned laughter, having foraged to excess at the the appetizer table, while sipping and spilling punch, Egg had planned a delicate exit - like an photographer whose camera (in this case a psyche) has reached its limit - yet, inexplicably, he found himself stalling, half-paralyzed, for fear of offending Olivia - a girl that he secretly sought to impress through his powers of endurance - i.e. his ability to withstand unbearable situations such as others would think completely harmless. Olivia was one of the few there who were able to convey a genuine sincerity even when seeming to agree with the inane/recycled/predictable opinions that the cool ones saw fit to bounce around. But Simon (nickname: Egg) refused to join in - making a point of being off in the corner sulking with his supposed coterie of like-minded dissidents. Before dissecting the male specimen that was sucking up so much of the air in the room, he made a point of referring to a disturbing trend that he had once again noticed while searching downtown for a rarefied poster of an Andre Derain landscape.... So first I go to Brewsters Prints and they DON'T have any Andre Derain....not a single landscape or portrait or harbor image....And no they can't order one ....And no I can't order one online because such a poster has never been made and does not exist. Can you believe it? -  You've have a rough day - said Terrence quietly.  - Yes a rough day, but to make matters worse here I am ambling from shop to shop in search of any late-impressionistic work to hang on my wall and I walk past not one, not two, but five (count 'em) five women of substance - you know... beautiful, vibrant, charming, intelligent, attractive, well-groomed females paired up with absolutely degenerate, bummy, loser guys. -Oh, said Terrence, absent-mindedly. That's..........not good. - You're finally catching on? - C'mon Egg - you're sounding quite melodramatic with your idealized angelic women on on side each paired up with a devilish male.... -  Sure...you can laugh if you want to...where do you think this beauty and the beast stereotype comes from? Huh? Huh? - The beast must have something special to offer her... said Terrence. - The beast is an illusion - a sham - a walking travesty - that anyone can see from a mile away. Why does it bother me so much? - Because you wish you could be the beast. - Fie. Fie. Don't be ridiculous. - Because you want what the beast has.  - No. No. No. That's not it. This cutting-edge specimen of manbeast has nothing to offer - that's my point.  We're talking ratty, disheveled, arrogant, egotistical males of the type that will drag anyone they meet into a large black hole. - Oh - that kind. - Yes - that kind. -Well - I still think your missing the key insight - said Terrence. - Terrence - are you really going to try to sell us on your bizarro-universe concept of love? - No Egg. You're forgetting the wildness factor. These male specimens as you call them offer up danger and mayhem in doses that guys like us can never hope to achieve due to our self-repressive, civilized tendencies. -So because they have "reckless" and "irresponsible" written all over them - that's enough to trump any of the regular common human decencies that someone else might bring along? - Basically, yeah. - And to make matters worse - here we have Exhibit A holding court across the room - and hoodwinking even the smartest of the bunch people like Oliv--- Oh I don't know said Terrence,  with his usual contrarian streak - he has a certain energy to him.  -Yeah - he's quite charismatic, chimed the Old Soul. - I take that back - said Terrence. - What? - Well - what I just said. Let me revise that somewhat. It's the wildness quotient + the fantasy. It's both of those together. - The fantasy? - Yes - people seek the danger as part of their fantasy....they crave the adventure that can never be - the one-sided scenario that ignores the complexity of things.... ....they chase after this flame - which seems to promise the fullness of life but in reality a desire for self-annihilation. - -Back to your theories Terrence! Guys your torturing me! - Bottom line is - cautioned Terrence - the women love him....And this is going to sound weird to someone like yourself Egg - but what they love about him is the chaos factor... -The chaos factor?  - He's the wild horse they all want to ride upon.... the freight train they want to chase after... the cheetah that they seek an encounter with... -Argggh! - Stop with the metaphors - please Terrence! - It all taps into the fantasy - which requires that a person chase after death.... Do I make myself clear? - Not really said the Old Soul - but I think I understand you. - Well it just goes to show you said Egg - how Mick Jagger is responsible for this complete degradation - this utter farce - the tyranny of cool. - Mick Jagger? Is that what you just said? - Well - who else would you blame? Casanova? Jagger - he's the one who started this ball rolling - as it were - with his decrepit degenerate example.

The Looming Legacy of a Living Legend

Oh I want to talk to you Marci had said and suddenly Chloe had departed and Fiona was nowhere near getting to speak with Billy or for that matter R.J. And so the two started walking, meandering really around campus and the conversation invariably steered its way back to the subject of Fiona's famous aunt, the same woman that Terrence had found himself smitten with in the most non-amorous terms possible, that same mysterious, outspoken professor/provocateur who had stirred up so much controversy over the years calling attention to the atrocity that was manbeast, thereby raising the spectre of the ongoing "war" between the sexes (a term she saw as entirely fitting) and dredging up the entire chasm of worms on the viability of healthy male / female interaction compatible (that is) with universal female autonomy on a future planet earth. Marci, like others, drawn to Bourgeois-Pain's charismatic reputation, kept going on and on about her vast accomplishments, uttering gushing praise at every turn and grabbing Fiona by the shoulders almost while dancing across the quad: Oh I just love your aunt, don't you just love her, and what she's done and what she's meant for us - you know - uhm - us as ....women. It's not just her amazing teaching career and all those books and speeches, those amazing speeches, and who she's known and where she's been...it's more than just her worldview ...It's her living example, her aura...  I just love her.... She's our local superstar - our living legend. And to think I've grown up here and heard her speak and been in the same room with her...without ever appreciating what she's accomplished...  And now it hits you - all of a sudden? And Fiona looking off across to her Aunti's favorite spot, where she had imagined a memorial statue or better yet, a wildly abstract symbolic sculpture might be erected someday. - Yes Yes Marci, I'm very proud of my auntie - but you don't need to act like a groupie. She's had enough of those.  You've met my auntie. You know what she's like. Marci was shaking like a leaf at this point.  But I'm so embarrassed to think that I've actually seen her up close, basically ignoring her (!) as just some other adult (with interesting braids, no less) when I should have been there just soaking up wisdom from her lips - bowing down at her shrine, taking notes on her style, her art, her fashion sense...  Oh Marci please.  Don't be such a lackey. She would really hate that.  As you should know, my auntie's really quite normal, not-so-intimidating or mysterious - even somewhat ordinary - well - almost - in some respects - except for - of course - certain incidents.  You sound like you're carrying around all her secrets, Fiona. Well - I want in on this action. I want some gossip and I want to you to bring me to her so that I can thank her - And even bring Terrence and Simon. I'd love to see her reaction to THOSE SPECIMENS.  - That's probably not a good idea. - She'd flip. Right? Am I right? She'd absolutely freak. Oh I have to see that! - Well, considered Fiona - they are relatively harmless. And my auntie has reliable radar when it comes to hapless males. A certain type of specimen actually amuse her - contrary to popular opinion. already - Oh, but she's not You don't understand. I never realized how much she's done...Doesn't it make you want to follow in her footsteps? My auntie has paid a high price for her labors. You don't realize that she endured a very unhealthy upbringing along with my mother and almost got sucked up into that as a young woman before her great rebellion. But what about her love life - her greatest paramours? Marci, please. Are you trying to reduce her to just that - like she's some tabloid celebrity? No- but I'm still curious. Yes, Marci - she was in love - she had love affairs - Is that so unusual? But with men? Yes - with men - back when she was young. And she tells you about it? Well - I've pieced some facts together with help from my Mum. And what does she think of your father? Oh - she wants nothing to do with my father - I mean he's a total fop as far as she's concerned.  So she hates him then? He's like a vile manbeast specimen! Do tell...do tell.  No, no, no, Marci - it's not like that. She really has nothing against him - you know my dad ....uhm.... she just finds him ridiculous and irresponsible. He is stupidly irresponsible (with regard to my mother, not me) which is irritating (to her, my aunt), but not as bad as certain other vices that attach to your typical man. Angry's not the word for her. She's BEYOND that, she's so BEYOND everything really - like the Buddha. But there must be baggage - Marci interjected. Yes. Yes. Baggage. She's only human after all....she's very hurt by people and their inane decision-making...Then perhaps she's sad - about people misunderstanding her. Yes. I think that's part of it.

There Once was a Man Who Loved Cats...

There once was a man who loved cats, a retiree of sorts, with sad green eyes and a hollow stare, who sat on his porch for long stretches of time shuffling cards and sorting bingo chips while the cats came from all around to seek him out: Abyssinians, Aegeans, Persians, Ragdolls, Exotics, Brazilian and British short-hairs, Siamese cats, Savannahs, Niebelungs, Tabby cats, Calicos, Oreos... People walking by or children passing on their way home from school could not help but pause to take in the scene and count the numerous breeds and colors.  This was perhaps just another "quietly desperate" fellow - one who had lost his job  in mid-career because of a certain "incident" that shall go unmentioned here,  involving a breakdown of sorts, accompanied by shouts, curses, tears and delusional thoughts. But to see him now, the man was quite calm, mellow, docile, beyond serene, sipping his lemonade and making unbroken eye contact with visitors to his porch be they humane or feline. In lesser numbers, the humans sought him out as well - for advice - as someone who had failed and suffered magnificently - as if speaking to a person who had electrocuted himself or fallen from a great height and lived to tell...Attempts were made to resuscitate the poor man's career, but he resisted, biding his time, enjoying the strange publicity that revolved around him and his cats. Standing guard over his cats, especially at the time of day when the young ruffians were about, he would shake his cane at the worst offenders and feel old before his time.

Randomness Happens...

Time is ticking before the big event, and there you are, brooding upon the drama and uncertainty surrounding the possible outcome....you mark off the upcoming "golden moment" on your calendar that theoretically will alter the status quo, disrupt the dominant paradigm, chart a new course, change things for the better, usher in a new phase of existence, make real communication possible etc. etc. So you roll this future contingent over in your mind, map it out step by step, imagining a thousand possible permutations of the same event, including what you plan to say and how that special person or persons will respond, but somehow it never goes as planned. Maybe it's that one chance you have to meet up with a potential soulmate or kindred spirit...you wait for your cue, anticipating violins playing or confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling; you look around for a sign, but by then it's already happening. You're talking to that person, making full eye contact.  Pleasant banter ensues, relaxed body language, laughter, smiles, nodding of heads, culminating in a shared and lasting mutual attraction, but then when the moment finally arrives, you find yourself becoming tongue-tied in mid-sentence, another person intervenes, the conversation stalls, someone faints, a stranger hands you a bill and suddenly you're out the door back in the shadows because the sequence that was supposed to unfold fails to materialize... Or perhaps, alternatively, the impending encounter is one that is fraught with tension, controversy - because the necessity of the case makes it more of a confrontation than a happy rendezvous...you are making an intervention so to speak with someone who annoys you, someone you typically try to avoid, whose very being grates upon your nerves...but you consider that you alone have an opportunity to change the dynamic and bring this person on board, to mitigate their rough edges, to pacify their vexing stridencies. There is no guarantee that such a ploy on your part will succeed, that the person will be permanently moved, altered, transformed for the better. In fact, the odds are against you; it's a long shot, but one with the same kind of what-if appeal that drives certain people to read - and sometimes lose themselves within - long romantic novels...On such a day, for whatever reason, perhaps the mild weather, perhaps because her morning tea was so unexpectedly delicious, Fiona - having  mulled over this dreaded  "event" in her mind, scoping out the sequence of awkwardness as would likely transpire - was, now that the day have arrived, strangely calm; she felt a sudden burst of serenity overtake her. She felt magnanimous toward others, even accepting of those most likely to annoy or offend her (which was most people). She was not one to suffer fools gladly and yet for some reason,  lacking her usual cynicism regarding the sad state of the world, a trait she no doubted inherited from her famous aunt - the notorious Katherine Bourgeois-Pain, she now found herself inexplicably giving in to strange feelings of docility and acceptance. When the familiar plebeians passed her way, she barely flinched; distracted shoppers, one-track-minded pedestrians, coquettish girls, well-dressed matrons, delivery boys, androgynous melancholics, slow-moving old men, aimless college students on extended summer break taking all-day lunch breaks- all failed to incite any kind of reaction - and this was a good sign, as she sauntered past this crop of "diverse individuals" in search of her adversary, that singular, woebegone, awkwardly over-confident, would-be prophet with a gift for driving her mad. It occurred to Fiona that little Billy Figgs was in some respects the most dangerous specimen of the male persuasion that she had ever allowed herself to fraternize with; yes, this was true. She had, it seemed, quite consciously made a point of collecting an assortment of hapless, starry-eyed males as friends....she had been around nice, clueless guys for so long that the other varieties of what her Aunt referred to as "manbeast", namely those alpha-male, type-A control freaks, corporate CEOs, sales execs, martinet-militarists, brigadier generals, back-slapping politicians - even muscle-bound, spoiled athletes - seemed like comic-book parodies or stock characters from old  B movies. Fiona had expected the worst from Billy, had anticipated in advance his desperate brand of faith with its unnecessarily rigid, feverishly dogmatic approach to every issue, his tiresome need to feel righteous, smug, and condescending like some forgotten minor deity with a chip on his shoulder....What she did not see coming was any admission on Billy's part that his own world-weariness had in fact caught up with him....Of late she had heard him invoking the doctrines of the medieval Cathars and Albigensians of the 12th century - counseling people to avoid romantic entanglements, admonishing strangers to forego their usual public-displays-of-affection, to sever existing ties with boyfriends and girlfriends, to dissolve any and all relationships that gave any inkling of having been tainted  by lust or fraught with the fatal seedlings of sensuality and concupiscence. Where did that leave him and Gabby Grailsmith as a couple - Fiona wondered. Was this some ridiculous preparation for a bogus apocalyptic scenario in which young single adults would gather in the cornfield? It was perhaps entirely logical for Billy to assume that the world had already ended, but that the finale had been delayed. Fiona had wanted so very much to denounce him as a fraud, a fanatic, an aberration of what true spirituality represented. She had planned to corner him as he made his way from diner to donut shop.  Billy - listen for a second... Things cannot go on like this with you and Gabby running wild in the name whatever crazy concept of God or religion you happen to be advocating. Therefore, I am cordially inviting, or rather, I am hereby demanding  that you void your membership in the Prophecy Club - and that you sever your affiliation with the Esoterica Society and the Higher Consciousness Continuum. She knew how empty her words would sound in the zealot's ears. They would have no more impact than a fly buzzing around his head or a leaky faucet dripping. With her reputation - as Billy called it - for outworn, new-agey, hippie-dippie, secular-feminist-spiritualism (whatever that means)  she had no more clout than a construction worker trying recruiting lost souls for an opera company; the fact that it was Fiona telling him all this would only raise a smirk, or perhaps a silent glare. Oh yes, of course,  if R. J.  had not handed down any kind of imperial decree or executive order, had not given a thumbs down on this one, or thrown Billy and Gabby under the bus or sold them down the river - which it was safe to say, he had not, then they were permitted, nay encouraged to continue their crusade...Amazing, truly, how much space Billy was taking up in her thoughts...But his presence continued to elude her...It was simply not meant to be...she would not be having the big encounter today despite her best laid plans...Instead she heard horns followed by a loud crash; a hideous fender-bender was erupting a mere two blocks away. A few concerned citizens rushed over immediately to survey the damage. Moments later, as if to add distraction upon distraction,  Marci and Chloe came barreling out of the gelato shop sharing the same  cup of frozen wonder, happily oblivious to the sudden commotion. Walking higglety-pigglety in a zig zag fashion, they laughed uproariously - in the midst of one of their "giggle fits" - striding virtually arm-in-arm, slurping, shrieking, moaning, yelping like two wildly uncivilized girlie-girls,  happily gossiping about two or three "dreamy guys" who held them spellbound for the past day or week or full moon.  Oh brother - Fiona gasped - overhearing their mindless chatter. Why did they let themselves descend to this level? Was this their way of letting off steam?

Snobbery

Strange to think that here in the modern world, as they say, with everyone having been declared equal, both at birth and before the law, alike in dignity no matter what the circumstance, equivalent in standing, commensurate in outlook, celebrated as participants and full-fledged also-rans, careful observers may discern a low-flying series of petty snobberies and vendettas, i.e. randomly arrived-at pretexts for feelings of intense superiority and preeminence, such that they are now driven by a subterranean set of ambitions, to escape the anonymity of statistics,  secretly, even desperately pining for avenues by which to stand out from the crowd, for a more benign form of social hierarchy - an official weekly mapping out, no less, of "winners" and "losers," complete with updated rankings and bell curves. Alongside the wellsprings of good-will and compassion, side by side as it were with sentiments of sharing and cooperation,  those old, unruly, unsavory, primordial demands make their appearance, demands for naked attention and garish recognition, for  awards, titles, prizes, entitlements, perks, special privileges - under the facade of humbly interacting with one's fellow citizens as fellow citizens.  Notwithstanding these forbidden thoughts, it was unavoidable that along with such desires, there should be fears as well - fears of "falling behind," of "not measuring up," of being found out as "deficient" in some crucial regard. As if to guard against gnawing insecurities, or to insulate themselves against any snide-yet-subtle comments from various self-appointed elites, people continue to do as they have always done in setting up little bubbles and enclaves for themselves to thrive in - by arranging it so that their best features, their interests, tastes, avocations,  possessions, acquisitions, shopping patterns, etc. would be highlighted to optimum advantage making it so that "those who are not like us and of us and with us...of our type and our ilk"  shall be, will be (how does the saying go?) - oh, let them be anathema. Chloe (who had grown up in this milieu and was a fine observer of human foibles) saw it as "one big game" (as she explained to her friend Fiona) in which the participants must continually vie for leverage and/or supremacy in myriads of little ways without (and this is crucial...) coming across as snooty or pretentious. Drama and intrigue carries over from high school - wouldn't you say, doll? Fiona would remark with her sardonic wit. It's sad to watch people get burned in middle age, sometimes just a repeat of what happened to them as teens. Needless. So needless... But tell me something that I don't already know... Chloe would reply in a voice of contempt that evoked her investment in this topic and perhaps her fear. It was still a dog-eat-dog world out in the suburbs, but the rhetoric of egalitarianism left no room to acknowledge the bestial cravings of the would-be victors in pursuit of their spoils. And so it happened on a bright summer morning in late June that a certain gathering took place - call it a "casual brunch" or a "sumptuous pot luck" among the established up-and-coming families in town, neighbors and friends of a select group mingling cheerfully and comfortably, while sipping libations and sampling home recipes. Nothing unique here: the usual spread, new furniture to announce, a debate about paint colors for dining rooms, someone's deck project or gardening plans, the loud banter interspersed with laughter or playful gibes, the preeminent ladies of the group proudly yet tacitly displaying some new item of clothing or jewelry, the men transfixed on sporting events, golf tournaments, betting strategies, hockey, basketball, the upcoming playoffs. It was all very safe and familiar until an unusual couple strode in and immediately turned all heads their way....because...well...for starters something about how they were so damnably well-dressed and polished and coiffed without even trying, not that they were dressed up at all really, but just well-put-together which could not help but place into stark contrast the nondescript attire of the other guests. Husband and wife, these sudden debutantes, with their amazingly well-behaved daughter, seemed bemused by the scene before them - like aliens from another planet - they waltzed in - perfectly poised, comfortable, and were summarily introduced, the husband that is, as someone or other's second cousin (?) or brother-in-law of Danny's uncle down in Florida (?). No matter. It was that look on their confident faces that said it all - that sardonic smile combined with a glance of partial elan and partial wonderment. The woman was literally accosted by two queen bees who pummeled her with compliments. Oh I love your necklace. Would you like a drink? How old is your daughter? Where did you get that? She was immune from everything - it seemed, from their opinions, their gossip, their subtle digs, their middlebrow sensibilities (Don't be shy...Come on in... join the party...We'll introduce you...)  This couple glided through the midst of them, greeting everyone with perfect tact, sampling appetizers, accepting beverages that were handed to them without complaint. The husband spoke effortlessly about the latest sports highlights while his spouse made vague positive comments about the size of the place - its "clean decor"  its "modern kitchen space" its "very nice big yard"- but the effect of all this was maddening. The way this woman looked at these surroundings - unable to hide a certain puzzlement, unable to repress a twitch on the cheek that was not quite a raised eyebrow. It was not a matter of money - oh no - far from it; everyone there was well provided for. Income was not the issue here. Trust funds, stocks, bonds, health care, spending cash - no cause for complaint, no reason to feel upstaged based strictly upon a financial ledger. But there it was - that feeling of inferiority, creeping out, permeating the room, fomenting ripples of mild, unconscious panic, first among the ladies and only secondarily among those men who could only surmise for the moment that the air felt stuffier,  thinner than usual. One comment in particular had the effect of an explosion when this well-put-together arriviste (for lack of a better term) - her name was Eve or Eva for the record... when this "Eva" casually mentioned to the others the name of a favorite clothing designer in response to persistent questions about what she was wearing. She named the designer as if to say, oh don't you know him? But then, adding insult to injury she gravitated to a print on one of the walls and began speaking rhapsodically at first, before catching herself, about an artist she knew who made similar sketches....And what do you do? - they asked as if expecting to hone in on some hidden secret. She "worked" at "such-and-such," she said, offering only a casual disjointed response, "in the arts...with patterns and colors...buildings... homes...rooms...design projects..." And what were they to make of that? Her mention of names and places and books only served to confirm what the women had expected - that she was from some far-away exotic place and had actually touched and tasted the tapas of experience that they had not even begun to have dreams about...

The Wildness Quotient

Terrence was in one of his happy trances again - wide awake yet staring off into space, trudging along with that unique stride, with that unpredictable, whimsical bounce in his step, secretly proud, giddy, impatient to speak with Simon and Fiona at the gelato shop, wanting to tell them about how he too was THERE at that lecture the other night on campus - that he had snuck in to see the renowned and controversial Katherine Bourgeois-Pain, that he had remained incognito in a dark blue hoodie - that he had not blurted anything out - despite the heckling that went on - that he had actually listened to what this amazing woman had to say, about the present state of the impersonal, mechanized technology-laden, late-capitalist behemoth-leviathan, about the role of women in society, about the crimes of manbeast, about the amnesia that the younger generation is so afflicted with; he listened and he went away thinking that something was missing - he wanted to find a way to speak with Professor Bourgois-Pain up close and personal - to tell her how thought-provoking her speech had been, to tell her how brilliant he thought she was, and - possibly - to remind her - ever so subtly - that she had (perhaps) forgotten to mention a crucial detail - had forgotten this strange intangible factor that Terrence had dubbed the "wildness quotient" - which, he felt was also the key to Simon's dilemma - when he had heard Simon complaining about the "absolute nighttime of the world" and the terror and brutality that lurks just below the surface of mundane normalcy. He thought about all of the members of the prophecy club - those goofy, grail-quest pilgrims, hungry for some purposeful activity, in need of a spiritual goal or goals, not to mention a path that was actually viable, that could actually be believed in without being laughed out of the room. This "wildness" notion that he'd been kicking around and poking at for years and years - that was somewhat different from Simon's notion of the "invisible terror" - because, in contrast to Simon's moralistic sense of outrage at the sad, unbearable silence of non-oracular, non-deified matter, the disenchanted eery presence of mere atoms and void unwilling and unable to respond sufficiently to human needs, wildness was not in itself either good or bad per se, because this idea of "wildness" could not be reduced to an abstract theory or a logical argument - because it was so expansive and divergent - it touched upon so many aspects of experience and would appear here or there never to be pinned down - that it just was such an "uncanniness principle" that had to be taken into account - not that it totally negated all forms of logic, language, science, philosophy or tangible discourse - but just that it represented that weird "ineffable energy" (or call it what you will) the unique self-assertion, the inexplicable aggression, the volatility, ambition, wanderlust, disorder - housed within all living creatures - within entities as such for that matter - that had to be reckoned with - that one could not confine to this one group or this one individual...And because it was not a theory, not even a fact or a set of facts of an event, but more like a story, a mythos that called for interpretation by persons dealing with "situations" at various times and places, he felt that he had succeeded in some kind of breakthrough; he wanted to explain how this "wildness" factor that came to visit now and then and brought with it by turns, chaos, destruction, terror or else (perhaps by corollary) adventure, rapture, heightened awareness - like a contagion spreading by means of various unlucky "carriers" and "infected ones" - sometimes a villain, sometimes a tragic hero...or involving, for lack of a better term "innocent onlookers" and "affected populations." Was this enough to rebut Simon and that old soul mentor of his - with their world-weary explanations - with their instinctual religious melancholy lashing out against the raw data of human vulnerability before the randomness of time and chance that "happeneth" to all? He thought again of that remarkable woman, that quintessential aging rebel and her radical indictment of relations between male and female throughout the animal kingdom, ending most conspicuously with men and women of today....it occurred to him that she had perhaps not felt the need to invoke any over-arching metaphysical principles or general concepts as part of her discussion, and yet...there was no doubt a philosophical underpinning to her remarks and a definite sense of cosmic injustice meting itself out. Did she believe that "justice" was then but a human construction along the lines of socially-constructed gender relations? Did she believe that nature itself somewhat of a hoax, a misnomer, a false construct, an illusory panorama of make-shift order and stability projected outward like some false glittering advertisement or continuous hologram that people simply absorbed as part of the scenery without noticing the role of language in the very acting of seeing and perceiving the natural universe?

Can Someone Just Agree with Me?

Lionel H. was sitting in the barber's chair at the Clip-n-Snip discount hair salon, petulant and brooding, high up on his perch, chair #4 to be exact, monitoring the haircut in progress - his own in fact, a sacred event on his calendar, a mental cleansing similar to yoga or meditation;  yet there he was on a lazy Sunday afternoon, holding his head stiffly in place while fiercely admonishing the young stylist with a strangely impulsive laundry list of do's and don'ts; nothing unusual here except that for Lionel haircuts were typically so fluid and serene; he had frequented this humble salon as a means of lessening his anxiety, and felt that nothing was so soothingly beneficial as a properly rendered (i.e. close-cropped) grooming. On this particular day, however, he felt uncharacteristically flustered, frayed, on-edge. He felt like screaming at the top of his lungs and berating the stylist, a young brunette woman with long fingernails and wild, amorphous, curly hair who for many months had been relied upon (trusted implicitly really) to give him that elusive "clean-cut look" - a look that in reality was so simple and banal, hardly worth mentioning, but one that he went on and on about in his mind, and would "unpack" for her in excruciating detail as if describing a DNA molecule, a Bach concerto or the latest panacea for a migraine headache. Eager to vent, he nevertheless held himself in check. Although nothing was out of the ordinary, with the casual pop music droning on in the background, with the Us Magazines and Men's Health periodicals strewn across the waiting area couches, with the lighting near the mirrors dimmed appropriately to accentuate the best skin tones of the pale, pasty customers, something just felt wrong. A cheerful blonde woman wearing a shapely and presumably "in vogue" happy-face t-shirt stood at the register, nodding politely at everyone. In the waiting area, two young boys sat next to an elderly woman. A young man with short hair (seemingly without need of even a trim) was happily immersed in reading the sports page. The temptation to explode was so overwhelming that Lionel could barely keep his hands from shaking underneath the cloak, and the young woman was so placid and compliant, so good-naturedly willing to endure any complaint or snide remark, that he found himself sending out a barrage of emphatic commands, albeit in fervent, hushed tones: Could you cut a little more on this side? Don't forget the top layers. The back feels a little full. You're not done in back are you? Do you remember what I told you? The stylist on this particular day, indeed remembered, but could not help feeling that Lionel was revising what he wanted every five minutes. You said not too short - I thought? she said perplexed. Yes - not too short, but I need a definitive haircut,  a haircut that is noticeable. Can you use a 3-blade with the clippers on this side here? Or maybe a 2. We'll have to see. The young woman suppressed a smile at this point, half-amused and half-mystified, and could not repress a playful gibe about about certain customers needing to "go back on their meds." Unfortunately for her, Lionel instantly latched onto this barb (reading into it far more than was intended) and indignantly replied: Oh, right. Oh right. Like I'm....Like I look the type...Oh, please.  - But I just meant ----- She could not get the words out before the barrage of indignation erupted in her general direction: Just for the record: I don't do drugs, okay. I'm not - I'm ....Drugs are for freaks, okay? Yes - I mean it. I'm going there: for freaks, losers, hooligans, hedonists, criminals, wayward types, drifters, people lacking a purpose. And as for medication, the only meds I'm on right now are caffeine and aspirin - two of the best substances known to humankind. Look, I'm sorry if I sound demanding, but I do need this haircut done right. I need a certain look - okay?" After such an awkward exchange the stylist was now flummoxed for a segue. But Lionel provided it. Yes. I know. I know. I'm a little stressed out today. That's why I like getting my haircut. It helps me relax. Better than a spa or whatever it is people go to nowadays. It really is. It works for me. Oh great - said the stylist, happy to be back in (for the moment at least) Lionel's good graces. I didn't mean to imply that you were on drugs. Lionel felt a brief spasm of rationality overtake him: Oh well I'm sure you didn't...but that's a hot button issue for me. Drugs, that is. And don't get me started about those annoying potheads. Next-gen stoners, pot-growers, pot-bakers, pot-gardeners, pot-advocates. Don't even go there.  I can't stand them and their wretched gateway addictions, their beloved cannabis plants."  Oh - said the stylist innocently, trying once again to diffuse a needlessly tense situation, I thought marijuana was considered more like a medicine nowadays. I mean for some people. You know they use it for nausea and for um....for people who....who use it to.... help their.... um...I can't remember what it's called..." "Their glaucoma,"- said the customer sitting in the next chair. You're right to say that marijuana is viewed more as a medicine these days than a so-called 'gateway drug.' And the convenient thing is that most people don't even need to light up. Somewhat annoyed by this interjection, Lionel glared at this customer - a pert, seemingly agile, grey-haired fellow, obvious "boomer" who it turns out grew his hair out in a long pony-tail for six months out of the year and then sheared everything off  (including his scraggly beard) from April-October thereby achieving a total transformation for no apparent reason from looking like an aging hippie mountain-man survivalist to a conservative financial planner in one fell swoop. But Lionel was not one to let such a comment go unchallenged. Before he could offer a devastating logical argument to silence his opponent, his fledgling adversary chimed in again:  I hate to break it to you... (laughing)... but you are a little BEHIND THE TIMES on this one... what you just said about lawful cannabis users is just a tad...oh how shall I say...rigid.... (heh, heh, heh). He said it laughing as if to show his good faith. Oh - here we go. Lionel groaned inwardly at yet another defender of the current Zeitgeist.  I'll take that as a compliment he said  in response. I'd rather be rigid - that is to say - principled - than on drugs. I guess I just belong in some other century than be surrounded by loopy, out-of-touch potheads on their way to crashing and burning. I know it may sound harsh - but I happen to dissent from the majority opinion - on - this -one. I don't trust the majority...The semi-affable hippie/mountain man soon to be cubicle-dweller or shall I say aging boomer coming back down the mountain to the bourgeois camping grounds, was in no mood to hold back: I understand. You have your opinions. It's just that they sound very judgmental. The times have changed, chief; you just have to adjust, you know: go along, get along, live and let live...   This was quite enough to push Lionel over the edge....He wanted to enlist the young stylist as an advocate, but feared that this would be a long-shot. What do you think about all this? he blurted out with maximum subdued demeanor. Oh dear - what do I say now?  thought the stylist, not wanting to offend any of the surrounding clientele who were now being drawn into the argument. Well - maybe it sounds a little judgmental (she giggled) as in opinionated (she giggled). I suppose everyone is like that to some extent, it's just that most people - Most people keep silent - because they've been cowed into submission, because they know that the thought-police will drag them through the mud with every manner of calumny. Am I right? -"Whoa there... my... my... you - uh - seriously - uh need to -  just take a deep breath and REALIZE that times have changed. I'm amazed at how - uh - what's the word - sheltered you are to talk about us cannabis advocates as somehow living on the margins...You've heard of alternative medicine haven't you?- Don't call me naive, sir. I know ALL ABOUT you dope-smokers. It's so interesting not only do you fail to allow me my rights as a dissenter- you don't even have the courtesy to ask whether I myself have ever had a bad experience with drugs. You ever think a-that? Some people have terrible, terrible traumas that all have to do with drug abuse. Do I make myself clear? And because I'm here on a Sunday trying to get a measly haircut so I can relax - you come along and accuse me of being some totalitarian boot-stomper just because I hate dope.   - Okay, fine. You can think whatever you want - but your way of expressing yourself is really offensive - because you  -" - Because I - Because you sound like such a puritan - what I call a "wound-too-tight." You don't seem to have much empathy, son. Can you conceive that some people may have had a positive experience where you perhaps had a negative one? Can't you wrap your head around that? Can't you accept that as a possibility? - No I cannot. One side of the equation is delusional." - "You know. Your problem really goes beyond this little debate we're having. I wouldn't be surprised if you make a lot of enemies wherever you go." - No doubt I do. Is that something to be ashamed of? - "Yes." By now Lionel was exhausted and practically in tears. - Is it too much to ask, he said looking around, for someone, anyone to agree with me? Can someone just agree with me? Anybody??? Now is the time to speak up... The young stylist knew it was time for an intervention. - Um sir, maybe we should take a break before we finish with your hair...Would you like some complimentary coffee? - Coffee - there's a nice drug for you - said the hippie. - Lionel nodded at her despairingly, feeling suddenly defeated by the world. The only words he could muster were to the effect of: What is your name. I didn't catch your name. I should know your name by now...

God's Favorites

The old soul was reeling from this latest round of spiritual malaise, or "Melville's disease," as he called it - having been accosted, literally swept off his feet by Wills and Fiona and plopped down on a park bench so as to feed pigeons and ponder calamities - or rather having resorted to feeding pigeons first, he then found himself bookended by Fiona and Wills spontaneously generating before him.  Sitting there holding his head, groaning to himself, gently rocking himself like a catatonic patient, oppressed by the warm breeze, the puffy clouds and intermittent sunshine. A few pedestrians sauntered by thinking that a mild head injury had occurred and was being attended to. Trapped within that familiar haze of melancholy which so many others falsely attributed to him as a flukey mood disorder, a temperamental pinched nerve unique to himself alone, as if to say well but, you know, it stands to reason that for every 100 residents of a small town, there has to be at least one "sad sack of a youthful malcontent with delusions of grandeur running amok...", caught up once again in the "dark cloud" that so many thinkers, observers, artists, writers, misanthropes of various stripes grapple with like people gasping for fresh air when enveloped by ceaseless plumes of smog.- What is it F.G? What is it? Fiona and Wills kept saying, but they sort of knew in advance or at least had their suspicions. The old soul looked around, but R.J. was nowhere in sight -  R.J.  the charismatic youthful svengali, ringleader and instigator of this entire mess.  Emerging from his mental daze, he found himself muttering something about Billy and Gabby - those would be "prophets" and "psychics" - the "lost souls" - as he called them - who to no one's recollection ever looked as forlorn or miserable as the old soul himself. Something about the escalation of tensions, recent incidents, quarrels and actual fights breaking out, threats of harm and prophecies of doom. Well - that was par for the course where those two "heavy thinkers" were involved. And wouldn't R.J. be right there, defending them somehow as "sensitive types" with "real potential," in need of proper "channeling." Because they had such morbidly original insights, because they had such amazingly vivid, apocalyptic dreams and visions, had made real predictions (with prodigious accuracy) about bus drivers getting fired from their jobs, about cafeteria workers fainting on hot days, about fourth-graders falling (or jumping) from trees during hide-and-seek, about missing cats being found in obscure locations,  etc. etc. - or else they had felt so deeply about matters of spiritual import, more intensely, more ambitiously than your run-of-the-mill teenager, or because they needed, so desperately needed a higher calling, a cause, a meeting of like-minded souls with which to interact, for which purpose, R.J. was more than happy to "house" them and include them in the mix. How to unpack all these thoughts bouncing around in his head! Finally the mumbling became coherent as he literally clutched at the respective shirt sleeves of his two companions.  Have you ever noticed how when people talk about God and Religion that it always boils down to God shining a light on a small random corner of the universe that happens to revolve around them...as if to say that God's plan is mapped out for their benefit alone, that everything happens for a reason, that every iota of time is calibrated toward their own self-advancement... with their every response to each new situation it's as if you can see their guardian angel nodding in the background (yea or nay) And of course God agrees with them when they choose vanilla over chocolate chip or when they approve of this movie or that video... or that God is likewise repulsed by the sordid goings on of the people down the street...or that God leads them to pursue this and avoid that, to justify every misdeed with a wink and smile, God applauds as they hop safely from one wretched moral pose to the next...God sent a judgment upon those people sitting over there while they won a sordid little prize... Always the same unseemly rationales, the smug intonations, the appalling spiritual vanity and self-absorption of these would-be prophets.  Wow. Was this really the old soul talking, venting, carping against the same aimless vagabonds that he had helped to shelter and guide barely 9 months before? Even as he said these things, however, he couldn't help but consider the few remaining strands of worn counter-arguments that had kept him so faithful for so long. These zealous driven ones - were becoming so loopy, yes, so headstrong and arrogant - to the point of becoming walking parodies - but did they not share with him that moral outrage - that probity of conscience that seemed literally to be fading out of existence - and was there not something to be said for that weird puritanical streak of theirs that always inclined them to utter "No" and "Don't" and "You can't....you must not....Beware!" when others shrugged "why not?...if it floats your boat?" Because it was becoming impossible to live in a world where the sense of sacred prohibitions was disappearing - in the sense that no-one could publicly agree upon them; but on the other hand, was it possible to live in a world where fanatics and mentally unstable zealots spoke for God? Based on what she had just heard, Fiona, somewhat astonished, but also relieved, was nodding her head wildly in agreement. Wills threw up his hands and laughed out loud - as if to say, hey buddy, are you just now finding out? I can't believe it took you this long, Wills said. Never could figure out why you gave those wackos such a long leash....? - You don't understand.  R.J. had everything under control. I could never trump R.J.'s optimism with my own negativity. - Ah. R.J. that seductive spin-meister. The dreaded moment had arrived - it was time to declare himself officially "non-affiliated"-  once again set adrift, untethered, alone, disenfranchised from one of the few institutions in his brief life that had given him some measure of sustenance. There he sat, thankful for the moral support provided by these two peers - both skeptical compadres, one of whom served as part-time provocateur for the free-thinker's consortium, the other, a lively free spirit who caused the first stirrings of schism within the prophecy club. -Look. I get it. We've created this breeding ground with this supposedly innocuous prophecy club of ours...by attracting these unstable types, these miniature fanatics... making them think they have something special to offer by way of psychic powers or hidden revelations...It's very damaging really...I can't believe I've been part of it...  - We hear you, Quentin. We're with you on this... You've got a soft spot for eccentrics. We all do. But we're talking about an obnoxious strain of dimwits who are ruining it for all of us. We've had to bail as well... - You don't quite understand. I can't do what you've done.  I've got nowhere to go. I don't approve of what the other side is doing either. I'm caught in the middle... - You're doing the right thing just by expressing your discomfort. You should listen to those ridiculous "heavy thinkers" and their stupid propaganda. Don't believe everything you hear about the free-thinkers.  -After all - you're looking at one of them - said Wills. And I'm not so bad right?  -Make that two - said Fiona.  I mean on one level - I get it. I do. These poor wretched anonymous types - creeping through life in their drab grey smocks, grunting and screeching as they go - suffering terrible feelings of neglect and anonymity...but instead of channeling any of that anger and resentment in a positive way, they just have to conjure up some really nutty - completely implausible - actually impossible explanation by which they become the center of attention for the entire universe... - You need to get R.J. to listen. He is letting all this happen. He thinks he is doing these people a favor by providing them with a place to go, a group to belong to. - Oh please. I'm sick and tired of hearing about R.J. the humanitarian. R.J. - everyone's heroic elder brother.  Alas - it was true. R.J.'s eccentric maternal grandfather, who as a dean of English and comparative literature sometime in the remote past (perhaps the 1950s or 1960s) had, in the midst of some ongoing debate with a rival academician (perhaps a philosopher, perhaps an art historian), issued instructions for the founding of the prophecy club along with an endowment of 10 million dollars or some such outrageous/exorbitant  amount. As a result of this prior drama, R.J.'s one mission in life - a pre-condition for receiving and utilizing such cash - was thrust upon him by way of inheritance, namely, to keep his grandfather's pipe-dream afloat and ensure for its continued growth. It was not as if people knew of  R.J.'s wealth per se; some hint of money was evident just from his manner of speech and dress, his well-pressed shirts and occasional bow-ties, his wacky, motley, colorful socks, his continual name-dropping of people, places and hard-to-find commodities,  a sort of elan, a charisma of good breeding which seemed always to announce his entrance; more importantly the uniqueness of R.J.'s situation was epitomized by that strange, inimitable goofy cheerfulness and perpetual giggle that made light of any serious situation and posed such a foil to the old soul's gloomy gravitas....such that when the old soul tried to warn him of the danger, the instability, the irrational contagion lurking within, R.J.'s answer was always the same...relax, grasshopper, one must be subtle when dealing with acolytes  in need of guidance and structure...Allow them to think that they are in charge when really....And here R.J. would break out into his ridiculous laugh... At least they're on a mission. They have a definite purpose. Imagine what they'd be like if they didn't.

The Last Day of Winter

On the last day of winter, the seekers went foraging in the blueberry field, looking for signs of melt or mud, for patches of brown earth or lone, stray, disheveled blades of grass to contrast with the vast veneer of snow and the lingering layers of endless white. The sun was out, but only meekly so, hiding behind clouds and peeping through the grey streaks for brief intervals, hesitatingly here and there. It was one of those weird, restless days when people who previously (all winter long) had been ready to snap, finally snap, or snap yet again, or otherwise relapse into eccentric behaviors. Two of the seekers were at first chatting discursively about their hunger pangs, their difficulty breathing, their unreliable footwear, the frigid discomfort of appendages,  having left sturdier coats, hats and gloves at home; they found themselves speculating about whether woods were more haunted in warm weather than during the cold season, whether ghosts hibernated, whether spirits traveled south for a time like everyone else in New England. The other two wayfarers were lost, transfixed, caught up in a rambling conversation about the heartier peoples of earlier times who dealt with winter without complaint, those hellions in Russia and Mongolia, who lived with the elements, who were forced to hunt and fish and built shelters or who hibernated underground for months at a time - without complaint. Those sturdier types, they asked for so little, expected little, begrudged no one, resented no one, were grateful for their portion, not like people these days, the pathetic whiners of modernia, those ultra-sensitive hyper-condriacs, who can't be outside in any kind of wind chill,  can't sleep exposed to the elements, can't go without their allergy pills, can't deal with any glitch in their schedule. Give me a little bit of that old spirit: to accept what life throws at you without expectation or lament...It's really quite tragic, when you consider that we can't go back to that mindset, it's not a matter of people not being able to face winter.......it's more the mindset that's we've lost touch with...because those tribes, those peoples lived within narrow horizons - their home was their world - they had nothing to compare it to really - nowhere that they'd rather be...

The Afterlife: A Dialogue

I maintain of course that glorious immortality is the ultimate goal - whether people realize it or not - the great telos, the goal of life...thus on some level we can grasp or intuit the bare outlines of what lies on the other side...

Oh. I don't know about that. What if some people out there are just - you know - indifferent to the whole matter.

What? Indifferent. It's just not front and center...

Fear of death, my man! C'mon. Do you discount that?

Yes. Yes. Of Course. Fear. Panic. Dread. The pangs of growing old.... That's normal.  But really that has to do less with immortality as it does fear of change in general. Death represents a huge adjustment - let's face it ...

And what follows after death...that is what people obsess over...and rightly so...

Yes, but, I'm just not sure you can say that everyone has the same vision of heaven, hell or limbo or...

Well...but everyone hopes to live forever....everyone craves the infinity of possibility that eternity represents- that sense of being able to go beyond what has been, to do or undo, to visit and re-visit ages and past lives and to make up the time....

Not for me, sorry. Can't fathom it. Wouldn't like it....

Can't fathom immortality you say....

Nope. That would be like perpetual insomnia...Ugh...

You'd rather just go asleep like a log - forever?

Wouldn't even know I was asleep. It would all go silent...

And that doesn't scare you...

Not that part....really...just getting over the cliff is what scares me....

But that's so sad....For everything to end with a "blip"....

Well...but painless...right? No regrets, no hand-wringing...no second guessing...No eternal punishments...

That's a cop-out. What about justice? The good and the base are punished with the same oblivion? That's untenable....completely unacceptable....

Well...can you imagine having to stay awake forever, having to remain conscious and aware of time past and time passing...

Oh - but it wouldn't be like that!

It would be more like the "blip" if you eliminate awareness of time...

Awkward or the Unbearable, Ineffable Complexity...

Gasping for breath, sensitive Simon trudges forward, looking around, yearning to tell someone about what he has just seen, what has gone down, what scandals are brewing, what horrors are lurking down the street, through the woods, in town, out of town, on the outskirts, on the edges. He has this crazy notion that life is somehow unbearable, that a person who is fully awake and aware of his surroundings is flirting with disaster, that intelligence and real concern breed insanity in the one who tries to absorb and balance the intricacies of a simple square inch of anything. Brooding thus like a mathematician calculating Pi to the last digit, mumbling silently to himself, tripping over sidewalk cracks, shivering without his coat, he laments: I am the witness, the sole witness, the prophet of the absolute terror, for the nighttime of the world, for the burden of mortal existence, for the human animal who was never meant to be a mere animal, who was not designed to function as a savage beast or an overgrown hyena...(That's when the trouble starts... when people immobilize themselves as slovenly brutes or else pretend to be as high as the angels...) It's bad enough having to digest a single day's worth's of headlines - the horse meat scandals in Europe, North Korea threatening preemptive nuclear attacks, drug cartels attacking students on spring break in Mexico, cruise liner passengers succumbing to dangerous, unstoppable bacterial infections, cheating athletes making their public mea culpas, celebrity chefs feuding over media exposure, another drive-by shooting in Chicago or D.C. where the victims go unreported, young women mauled, attacked by roving bands of males in India, smog levels in Beijing setting new records for numbers of people living under untenable conditions, prelates and clerics resigning, some from exhaustion some out of shame and guilt...a new Pope, perchance, to oversee a vast imploding bureaucracy of hierarchical intransigence....or those other headlines too disturbing to even mention like that house of horrors in Cleveland where the three women were held, beaten, ravished for more than a decade... Every waking moment on this god-forsaken planet, it seems, exacts a price from the psyche - a frittering away of stamina in the form of needless anxiety, stress and toil. One must become like Atlas, preserving it all in memory, in consciousness, like a desperate man teetering under a giant globe that he is taxed with holding up. And, along with these headlines, to be confronted by local horrors here at home, a thousand seemingly minor happenings, to be surrounded by local provincial folk who bear it all in awkward silence, who go on with their lives with quiet resignation or in some cases loud, disorderly meltdowns, desperation all the same. No public forum by which to unravel this nightmare, no one to converse with, no one else willing to acknowledge the sheer volume of unspeakable evil, the litany of public crimes, the private domestic abuses, the ugly, hidden, petty scandals, ... and this most recent "incident" (witnessed up close, directly)... a vision of sorts...just the latest of a series... so many heinous acts and miniature atrocities piled on top of one another... the insanity, the obsession, the compulsion leading to the lies, deception, betrayal - not simply the surface phenomena of events but what lies underneath - the snake pit of desire, the cauldron of the irrational, the seven-headed hydra dragging us all down into the dark iron cage below. It all goes back to the pre-determined outcome, he thought...the pre-conditions, tendencies, inclinations, instincts, appetites, pathologies leading to up the ugly outburst, the physical expression of the underlying spiritual ailment, which (consciously) we ignore, deny, flee from en masse, refusing to look at, refusing to probe, because nobody gets it...no one is involved...all of us radically cut off, disjointed, detached, unaware, negligent, complaisant, complicit, looking the other way, downplaying, explaining away, dwelling upon the facade of peaceful civility... Even Terrence - usually so easy to bounce controversies off of, so typically receptive to such philosophical banter, if simultaneously,  playfully contrarian, resists the full implications of Simon's thesis...When Simon tries to tell him about it,  he remarks that: yes oh, well, so I guess every young man and woman are playing with fire every time they go out for the weekend - since - theoretically - disaster could strike: ha, ha, ha....I mean...they could procreate....ha,ha,ha... you know, continue the species...This only makes Simon wince with frustration to hear such nonsense. No, no, Terrence continues: I'm completely serious...you were talking about the dangers...and well, isn't that a constant danger of youth? But you're forgetting something my friend.... in this wild claim of yours that life is one big long nightmare....one locked house of horror....Oh what is that??? Simon bellowed. Some people love the danger. Ha, ha, ha, ha...No really. That's capnip for some. You don't see that? People want....not to get hurt exactly....well sometimes, yes I suppose they do...but mostly we're talking moth and flame pyrotechnics.... Simon paused for several seconds before replying: That in itself is also terrifying...because they have no sense of the enormity of the danger, the bottomlessness of the abyss. And yet, to be fully human means we aspire to the highest stage of civility, refinement and cultivation,  to reach the stage where these terrors torment the mind, to reach the stage of logic-induced insanity. - So those thinkers at the top, as you describe them, the in-tell-o-gent-sia - the artists, writers, scientists, journalists, photographers, anyone worth their salt must all go insane? By the simple logic... of keeping their eyes open? Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha....Terrence could not contain himself. Well....But at this point Simon became so tongue-tied, he could not speak. Terrence was beside himself, obsessed by the topic-at-hand, unwilling to let go of the argument: Why do you use words like terrifying, horrific, agonizing, god-forsaken, unbearable? Why not say, like, uhm - uhm - uhm - weird or, or, or.... wacky, you know, intriguing, uncanny? Because it's - it's not all darkness out there. People are still smiling and cavorting, some are actually enjoying themselves, others blissfully ignorant, obtuse, distracted... No need to put such a negative spin on things.  Right, mumbled Simon, with the growing cases of mentally ill and depressed/anxious people out there.  I don't see it...I mean yes I see it...but not to the degree that you're describing. The house of horrors. The what? The house in Cleveland. What house? Where the evil troll.


Hey........said Terrence said....employing one of his typically long pauses....what happened to you? You look strange...Oh man,,,where have you been what have you seen?

It was too disturbing, said Simon, I couldn't explain it....I was walking along the quad at noon...

Hey I was there too...Nothing was happening...

Oh yes something happened...

Attempts at conversation, explaining the unexplainable only leave him tongue-tied, bereft, misunderstood. The awkward pause. The conversations starting up and freezing in mid-sentence. This is how it is to live - to  never fully communicate. Are you listening? What...I'm trying to? Yes? Tell you... About... If I could only tell you how it is... It is so hard to explain the big picture...to cover all the parameters... Don't you see? Don't you?  That it's all too much really. I'm drowning in the details. I'll spare you all. You said. You were saying....We want to hear. No doubt you do. But I refuse to simplify... You're exaggerating... surely...You're mistaken... Are you joking? I'm quite serious...I must tell someone... We get it Simon. Slow Down..Take a breath.  No you don't. Yes we do. But how can I tell you when it's not so clear...when it's too vast and complex to serve as a simple story, a linear narrative...I am not spinning yarns here! Just tell us. Tell us all about it. About them. About whatever... Alright then....How to begin....To take but one example of the Taucher family and their recent implosion - the bitterness of some ancient progenitor now shackling the dysfunction of the second and third generations - with ripple effects of mutual antipathy and settling of scores. If anyone had the time to map out the entire gamut of chaos emanating from this prodigious clan with extended branches of cousins and nephews, siblings and grandchildren inhabiting the entire southern portion of the state...And how Becca's mother can barely put food on the table for her two girls, because her second, soon-to-be ex-husband, recently fired or rather forced to resign, has taken up with someone else (a second cousin no doubt) and that person's step-daughter has a vendetta against Philippa, although she actually likes Becca - though Fiona has sworn a curse against them all...and should I mention the other toxic males in the mix, who carp and cuss and live to disrupt, wreaking havoc with their respective houses: Wayne's brother Gus- who broke into Chad's best friend's house to steal back the money that Chad said Phil owed to his girlfriend, Susan, whose job on the night shift is not what people think and besides the fact that her day job is really non-existent, that is to say untenable...and the welfare cheats (Wayne and his friends) play the system with no sense of guilt and crash the food pantries when they want a free meal. But it's more than that really. Are you people listening? Are you listening? Listening? What I want to know is the source...of these confusions... that just linger and fester, that continue onward and outward, being forwarded in time like an unending, relentless spam email...

The Controversy Surrounding Happiness

Swatting at cherry blossoms, camelia bushes and random insects with a stick, Fiona trudged along Merriweather Street - still seething at the so-called "intervention" in the guidance office that the rash Mr. Girello had so vainly attempted, with his smarmy, obsessive need to "change the course of destiny" for students unlucky enough to be sent his way. There was much to resent as far as his method was concerned: his love of numbers and hard data, his need for "track records" and "proven statistics" as a measure of his own aptitude as a cartographer of human productivity,  his harsh manner of badgering people off of their "wrong course" onto his "proper path" - transporting them, like rabbits in some ill-conceived, tortuous lab experiment, from their familiar grassy knoll into a foreboding, dank, dark, sterile, steely, indoor environment; how she disdained his middlebrow conception of the "good life for all." From a distance, she saw her calm, serene, empath/friend, Marci,  sitting cross-legged on her front lawn, with eyes closed and chestnut hair pulled back into braids, half-smiling and somehow taking in all of the surrounding universe, especially the school bus dropping off grade-school kids a half-mile away, anticipating their scampering past, slightly in advance of Fiona's arrival. The children marched by as expected at 3: 17 p.m. And then came Fiona with her dark cloak green sweater, ruby-red shoes and autumn-inspired baseball cap. Almost hyperventilating, she found herself walking swiftly up the driveway to the place where Marci sat meditating, glaring down at her intently without speaking until Marci said "Let me guess..." and Fiona said "Walk with me...I need to vent concerning that stupid manbeast... " and so the two began their daily ritualistic foray (repeated on alternating days) in search of miniscule edible items of sacred importance, including, but not limited to, various flavors of gourmet gelato and/or coffee. Without provocation, Fiona went on about this stupid man, this wretched meddler...this macho poseur with the short-cropped hair and the form-fitting Armani sweaters, how unforgivable it was of him to accuse, to intimidate, to harass, with his arrogant, unremitting tone - barely allowing for replies - shutting down any hint of real conversation, revealing with every bromide his condescension toward the impaired, misguided younger generation. What was it that he said that upset you so much? I mean...usually...you can just tune people out... Marci just had to find out. Oh well - with him - everything is a travesty - Haven't you gotten trapped in his little office - ever - with the door left open so other people can listen in on the conversation? He was - just - atrocious - especially what he said about happiness and what all people need to do as part of some recipe for happiness. It was so wrong...I could even begin to explain it.  - And were you able to even give your opinion? - Oh I gave him my opinion. I always give my opinion. I wanted to say 'Look Freak!' but I held my tongue. I said: isn't it obvious that there cannot be a single life-script or formula for success that everyone has to follow...I said happiness takes an infinite number of forms...and who are you to say that there is only one "responsible path" to follow. I hate that term!  And he kept going on about the "rules" and "parameters" that limit and confine and hem us in - as if we were all chickens in a coop! I lost it at one point. I said: I'm not interested in your logic. I don't care about what other people do...and where they go to school... what kind of car they drive...what they wear... what souvenirs they collect ... how they recreate...what their perfect diet is... what they hope to accomplish or not accomplish...how they define misery and failure. It has nothing to do with me...I don't follow other people's rules! And that really annoyed him. And he came back with What are you - some kind of Anarchist? And I said. I don't follow other people's rules. There are no rules to follow (except the unwritten ones that no one ever mentions because they're too self-evident). But for some reason - Marci  - usually so sympathetic - was not quite satisfied - could not leave it as is - without excavating an ounce of plausibility within Mr. Girello's generally flawed and blusterous argument. She just had to play Devil's advocate...But don't you think, she said, that some people are like... just kind of lost... and they DO need advice...a certain kind of advice...to steer them off of an extreme self-destructive path? You know the people I mean...just aimless, floundering...craving direction... Yes, yes. yes! came the reply Fiona was more than a little annoyed. You think Mr. Girello and his ilk is going to offer real help - useful advice - to these poor, unfortunate dregs that the high school spews out every year. Marci  - you can't be serious. Marci spied the gelato shop two blocks off. It's just that when you say that there aren't any rules to follow.... - Except for the unwritten ones - please don't misquote me - Okay except for the basics that everyone understands - but to say that we don't have things in common - like wanting to avoid needless suffering --- well, it just makes me wonder ...because these poor unfortunates that we keep referring to - I mean - they sort of do need structure - I mean guidance - to help them avoid the worst possible scenarios - and yes - they want people to tell them what to do (or what not to do rather) - They appreciate that - if not from their local guidance counselor then from someone else...

Mr. Sympatico or The Agony of Egos

Rumors swirled around Mr. Sympatico and his storied past. Some believed that, with his "far-away stare" and walking-wounded gait, he had done time with the army,  had seen death up close, by way of some accidental tour of duty involving hand-to-hand combat in some forgotten war...or had lost a loved one (a spouse, a child, a sibling) quite recently in fact; that he had been committed, albeit briefly, to a mental institution, that he had served time on a chain gang in Alabama; that he had been a drug rehab counselor until relapsing on oxycontin; that he had seen a UFO; that he believed in magic crystals; that he had once lived out on the streets; that he worked for the circus, first as a juggler, and later as an acrobat until his back gave out.  The students wanted to know the truth about him, but they were as yet unable to find out. Everyone had a theory about this lanky, erudite, easily-distracted and somewhat disheveled, benevolently grumpy middle-aged teacher whose career seemed to be on a steady downward slide ever since what became known as "the incident" - about which, likewise, no one could agree. A vague cloud of controversy followed him everywhere - and seemed to be tangentially related to his obstinately "philosophical" attitude - a skeptical habit of mind that inevitably aroused suspicion insofar as it found opportunities to challenge Humean nay-sayers as often as suspected true believers.  They called him Sympatico because no one could pronounce Symkomniak - his real name. He was said to be in a relationship with various eccentric suitors, (and perhaps most recently in a secret liaison with Ms. Veridian) but beyond that, his own familial connections and romantic involvements remained fuzzy at best. Like Immanuel Kant on his daily rounds in Konigsberg, Mr. S. could be seen on a regular basis fervently meandering down select hallways and corridors, working his way from one end of the school to the other, until arriving at his normal snack-time perch - a bench opposite the exit door near the gymnasium, where every morning at 10:05 a.m. he would make use of that briefly-alloted, 10 minutes interval by scrutinizing the plaques and trophies along the wall,  staring fixedly at a glass display that he deferentially called the "haunted photographs" - a set of long, rectangular, black and white portraits encased in glass - mementos of clubs and teams and superlative students of prior decades. At such moments, it was not uncommon for him to meet up with students passing by him seemingly at random - usually members of the fledgling prophecy club - who sought him out as their unofficial mentor - and could not help themselves from gathering facts and anecdotes as to what exactly "the incident" entailed. The old soul, who prided himself on being the the most far-sighted and philosophically curious of his peers with the possible exception of Simon - made a point of seeking out Sympatico - if only to find an audience for one of his precocious insights. And Tuesday, February 5th, made room for one of these encounters. "Mr. S. Do you know all these people..."  - "Well - I know most of them. They were all here not so long ago..."  They both glanced at the faces from the basketball team of 1989 - which for some reason made up a dilapidated-looking black and white photograph from a bygone era - the year when the cold war had officially ended. Sympatico was already beginning to feel sucked back into that time of maximum nostalgia and pain,  reliving the slights and scars that had become such an overlay upon his psyche, like a musty security blanket with an odor of familiarity. "It's weird to look at these faces - frozen-like in the snapshot - and then to think how old those people must be now..."  - "Ah - a man after my own heart. At last I meet up with someone equally transfixed by time. I thought I was the only one."  -"No. It bothers me in fact."  -"Indeed. Indeed. I know exactly what you mean. Time unfortunately always wins. But there's drama in that - I suppose."

In saying this he was seized by a peculiar pang of anguish welling up as it always did from the same considerations, evoked so frequently in strolls down corridors of buildings such as this. I wish I could relay something to this one about my own struggles - he seems a tormented soul like me...but I don't even trust that he'd understand THE ISSUE at hand, what had always been at issue, and at the root of every little defeat, the cause of the loitering despair - that knowledge of the impossibility - the sheer impossibility of ever being a truly decent person within the minefield of the social world as presently constituted, the impossibility of ever being "good and true" on your own terms, without feeling like a prisoner under surveillance or a servant indentured to the whims of necessity, to the caprice of the anonymous crowd. Unless it was of course a matter of privation - the absence of a skill that came naturally to others. Nevertheless, simply the knowledge of THAT - the sheer debilitating knowledge - that I cannot be good, the way God must be good, the way they say that Jesus was good or the Buddha was good. How hard it is to show that purity of character without putting on an act for oneself, without becoming an out-and-out fraud, without retreating into mere cowardice or playing it safe and avoiding difficulties. How absolutely futile to preserve one's integrity and make through the crucial years without becoming a stooge, a sell-out, a one-dimensional prop, a silly farcical half-wit. You have to learn to play the fool somewhat or else go insane or get angry, have a meltdown or "sell out" entirely. The stupid need of mind to be good! to have integrity and honor, to stand above the fray - is it not just another typical pathetic little example of a little man's pathetic vision of vanity and self-glorification? If one could just let go of the need to be good, would that be the answer - going beyond the civilized straight-jacket of the knowledge of good and evil? But would this young chap understand my dilemma? Oh, who knows, he might...The inner conversation was again interrupted...

-Mr. Sypatico - I need your advice....I know you're not technically a guidance counselor, but you do have that office..." 

- "Yes - part of my demotion." 

- "So I know that you see a lot of people already."  

-"Yes. I'm becoming quite the people person ever since my initial humiliation...Please don't ask me about the incident..."  

-"No sir..."

Oh that dreaded blasted incident - confirmation of a lifetime of minor missteps and blunders causing needless derailments and change of plans, making time move as a haphazard sequence of stops and starts, of zig-zags and backward steps, of circles and semi-circles and redundant u-turns, born of silly emotional breaking-points, ridiculous impulsive reactions and general somatic instabilities.

-"But you've got something philosophical to share with me. I can feel it."

-"Well - it's just that...I've been thinking about what makes so many people so unhappy...and it sort of has to do with the emphasis placed on the individual..." 

- "The primacy of the individual - ah yes, quite a western idea, I'd say..." 

"But that's just it. Everyone builds up these expectations about life and success - and how it all boils down to individual accomplishment and reaching a certain degree of prominence or popularity..." 

-"I like where you seem to be going with this. Please continue..." 

- "But what ends up happening is that on some level - everyone understands that it's not about them in the long run. As individuals, most of us that is, we're going to live and die in some anonymous fashion without gaining the recognition that we crave. And this fact is terrifying and horrendous and completely unacceptable to each person's ego. And even though the community counts for more, in the sense of enduring longer, and the species counts for most of all, it's not like we can just be happy with that. Being a mere contributor to one's tribe or family or community or country or the species itself is not an adequate form of compensation. We're still going to be miserable - just knowing that we as individuals are, for the most part, anonymous in terms of the role we play, and will vanish into oblivion." 

-"So - in the grand scheme of things - it's not about us then - is it?"

-"No - it really isn't, Mr. S. But this is what's so hard to accept. Like I say - it's unacceptable. How do you cope with that, how can people just accept THAT?" 

-"But are you saying there's no place for collective memory - for at least a partial form of immortality. Have no never heard of fame - of monuments and memorials? There's a reason for books and libraries and archives you know!"

-"Yes - but even then - how many people make a point of remembering anyone from earlier centuries. A handful of names that most people latch onto ... and then only on a superficial level. The bulk of humanity lies and dies in oblivion..."

-"Well - let's back up for a second .... I want to ask you a few questions if I may...Now...to what to you attribute this tendency -this unfortunate habit of assuming that the universe  revolves around us as individuals?" 

-"Survival instincts, I suppose. The body conditions us to react a certain way to outside stimuli, to regard the external world as, by turns, friendly or hostile, and to take offense at whatever curve-ball nature  decides to dish out..." 

-"Very good. Very good. So it gets personal when we don't get our way..." 

-"Exactly." 

-"And you seem to be saying that the body forces us to be conscious of certain basic needs and thus to be pleased when these needs are met and miserable otherwise - but that it would be better if we had remained only semi-conscious of our ill-treatment at the hands of nature - because then we would never have invented unhappiness for ourselves?" 

-"Something like that - yeah - I guess that's it." 

-"But if I may - are you not also implying here that it was not on some level beneficial for human beings to have adapted and developed  a more finely-tuned sensory apparatus, to have become creatures famed for taking notice of other entities as individuals. Was this somehow a catastrophe for us?" 

-"Well - we paid a price for it - didn't we? Wouldn't you call that kind of progress tragic to a degree?" 

-"Ah - tragic - because we are cursed with a level of consciousness that forces us to regard entities in and of themselves and their well-being as individuals - and to compare one creature's lot with another's - to project our own feelings and aspirations onto every entity that surrounds us? And is that such a bad thing - such a terrible outcome?" 

-"Well I'm just saying..." 

-"Yes. I see what you're getting at - but one could reverse the question and ask - what sort of happiness would be available to us if human life had ceased from striving from aspiring - if it had merely plateaued at the level of brutish, herd-animal subsistence?"

-"What do you mean by that?" 

-"Well - if we just had remained complacent herd-animals on the order of sheep or cows  - having no ambitions beyond the survival of the group?"

-"... But let's get back to this business of anonymity. That's what's really bothering you. What's it's all for - in the grand scheme - if nothing gets remembered - if the contributions of most people fall by the wayside and never get noticed or validated in any way? Is that a fair summary?"

 -"Yes." 

-"Well - if I may ask - do you have any spiritual or religious insights that might provide some source of consolation?"

- "You mean like "God watching over us and keeping tabs on everyone?" 

-"Yeah - something like that - for sure."It sounds great - but when you consider how miniscule people's lives are - it would be sort of demeaning to God as Ultimate Mystery or Absolute Intelligence - to be some sort of divine stenographer or census-taker - keeping stats on people." 

-"I see what you mean. You have a point there." 

-"It would help if there some kind of celestial butler or numbers-cruncher out there...but just the sound of that seems implausible." 

-"Well - people do believe in angels you know..."

One Voice Creates a Ripple Effect...

The women came to that exclusive gathering that warm September evening as though they were making a sacred pilgrimage to the interior of some ancient temple where a living oracle would be, perched upon a throne of sorts, silently welcoming pilgrims and wayfarers, holding herself in deep reverie or meditation for long intervals, before finally emerging, consenting, selectively offering her sporadic snippets of esoteric wisdom to each guest according to her need...It was the spacious, warm, inviting lounge making up the west wing of the student center - once known as the largest Victorian house on campus that served as the chosen venue of this watershed event. The older women happily sat on pillows or cross-legged on the rug, comparing notes, while younger ladies scrunched together on the long leather couches or found space to huddle in various corners of the room until they had exceeded the fire marshal's recommended number. The center of everyone's attention was an charismatic (dare one say: attractive) elderly woman with dark braided hair, searching eyes, a well-defined jaw and a beaming smile; she wore a multi-colored shawl, blue jeans and sandals as she greeted various regulars with ecstatic small talk, kisses and familiar embraces, stopping to comment on scarves, jewelry or other special features of fabulous colleagues and returning students. And with the crowd spilling out of the side back entrance, one of the late arrivals - the only one of the male persuasion (so far as anyone knew) - with much assistance pursued a reluctant sort of forward motion, walking arm in arm between two close female friends who like bodyguards escorted this short-haired oaf through the distracted crowd as he - with cap pulled down over his face - hunched over hyperbolically so as not to reveal his true height, kept tugging at his dark baggy sweater as if it were a cloak until the trio found welcome rest kneeling beside a lamp where even the most devoted acolytes do not usually kneel or ensconce themselves. One of the aforementioned bodyguards winked at the other with secret pride ("We made it..."), while the hapless male remained docile and subdued- and truth be told a little unnerved by this strange spectacle that he was somehow intruding upon against his will. The room had that hum of polite excitement that takes place before lectures, ballets, classical recitals; Katherine Bourgeois-Pain - the evening's speaker - surveyed each individual guest, slowly taking in the scene. Suddenly a few shrieks were heard as the audience roused itself into a fit of sustained applause and fun-loving hoots and claps such as one still may find in folk music circles. One of the undergrads rose to the makeshift podium and meandered through a nervous introduction repeating as she went about what a life-altering event this night was destined to be. The hapless male interloper's attention span was held spellbound by the sheer variety of womanly forms and faces. Clearly out of his element, he looked around for any signs of other uninvited male guests - but when none were forthcoming, he surmised that at least a few other clandestine party-crashers were indeed present.  Perhaps some are here, he surmised, but "under wraps" like me... The talk had been heavily advertised of course - but as with other such on-campus activities, this proved something of a foreboding enticement even for sensitive, sympathetic males. After the cries had subsided Bourgeois-Pain stepped forward and began to speak, slowly, emphatically..... Well, she began...I must warn you that what I am about to say is not for the faint of heart... (laughter)...As you know I have been dubbed "controversial" (much laughter) and "incendiary" - someone who loves to go against the majority opinion. And yes - I do proudly wear this mantle of heretic and gadfly. But if what I say does sound strange at first, or does make you uncomfortable, please realize that what I say is simply trying to tap into feelings and reactions that perhaps you are already experiencing or have experienced. Because you already know in a sense everything that I am about to suggest to you as true. You know (in advance) the reasons why we are here, she began. And what must be done. And who must be reminded, and enlightened or shall I say confronted (much laughter). Looking around the world today, you all have your eyes wide open - I say that with deep faith in the quality of our young women. Before I have even begun to try to explain anything at all to you amazing ones - you beautiful, curious ones, you wise women, you bright, faithful ladies...You have understood pain, the pain that comes from being slighted, from being relegated, from being pigeonholed and underestimated....And you have come here tonight because the paradigm man-beast-behemoth-leviathan cannot prevent you from feeling whatever it is that you feel in your innermost psyche which is the true dwelling place of the spirit....You feel it within, but I would wager that you also feel a tug, like a guilt, pulling you away from truth, pulling you away...And stopping abruptly she looked around - seemingly for signs of which had already made up their minds, having agreed with her and which were skeptical. And were there some there as well - enlightened-progressive colleagues, mind you, who were somewhat more antagonistic in their silent glares. Was it true, what some had said, that this wave of feminism had died out years ago and was in dire need of a theoretical re-adjustment, or had it simply been eclipsed by other concerns and formulations brimming up from the imperatives of popular culture and the current vernacular? And was this formidable woman, looking perhaps for an heir apparent or sorts, some dynamic younger woman or woman's coterie to whom she could pass the torch of radical activism? The faces of other male interlopers were beginning to emerge from hoodies and hats, whispering under their breath to one another "This is so weird. This is so weird..." while Bourgeois-Pain continued in her measured, mellifluous tone:  And now I arrive at what some - even some of you here tonight - will consider controversial... because of my choice of words (laughter). I come tonight to tell you something of man-beast and man-child. I use both terms in order to be fair, in order to acknowledge the spectrum of possibility, in order to make clear what the matrices of biological mutations have wrought.  I know there is a part of you, as women, to extend compassion to all - especially to man-child. This loyalty you feel as you look out at innocent manchild and his early promise in life. And some part of you, indeed, understandably, may even want to be a caretaker,  friend, confidant, muse, patron  and so you do what so many women do at this crucial age, at this irrevocable moment in their young lives, when destinies are forged...namely, you give yourself over to someone else's imperative; you put yourself on hold; you squelch the voice, you suppress it believing you have done the right thing - you have become a "moral person" - This is morality and respectability. So you say. But even at the moment when you do so, some discomfort remains because you cannot deny to yourself the unfairness, the injustices, the havoc and the chaos - the sheer violence that is wreaked by man-beast and his tendencies. And so - you scratch your head and you ask why? And what can be done about this - you say. But even knowing the problem that exists you cannot bring yourself to conclude that it is a global phenomenon with global ramifications or a historical problem with historical reach or a biological problem to some extent with anthropological consequences...you do not perhaps wish to envision the parameters of the power differential that is involved in all this. You perhaps would rather believe that no one is responsible - therefore even the perpetrators are innocent - Because it is a matter of education after all - and proper upbringing - perhaps you've told yourself. And so many of these men are poorly educated and grow up to be (as a result) - let's face it - problematic males - dare I say - toxic males - dare I say troglodytes (much laughter). No really. Think about the damage done, the wreckage that is heaped upon our collective memory - think of the infected who walk around with negative labels who are basically of the same mindset as those on top....And what do we sometimes call these wretches? Punks, derelicts, criminals, stalkers, control-freaks, muggers, thugs, abusers...I can't even bring myself to mention the other ones. From whence do these male mutations emerge given all of our efforts - given that we know in theory that theses types are unacceptable? Why can't our educational system handle them and re-make them? Does it all go back to biology? I know already how some of you in your weaker, more desperate moments are tempted to answer. But suppose with me for a moment that a system underlying this mess did in fact exist as we all think it does exist - as the product of some vile inheritance, a curse, a pestilence that is passed on, that is foisted on us really - an absurdly burdensome legacy of social roles and gender practices, of rules and strictures and expectations, of threats and  punishments and innuendos that you have been taught to accept unthinkingly as NECESSITY - as BIOLOGY as DESTINY  - forgetting mind you, what great labors are expended, what sheer continuous effort is spent showing us that we ourselves have consented to beliefs and practices that we did not invent....Imagine the sheer dimensions of this system, this apparatus, with all of the protocol that goes with it and then ask yourselves --- does it not require a web of enforcers to promote, defend, maintain this false world - think authority figures, fathers, coaches, elder clerics, cops and soldiers and of course, those aging politicians, our so-called leaders (rudderless dregs really) - from the stodgy CEO's in board-rooms to football players and star athletes etc. etc.- these male charismatics, these desirable types, these huckster golden-boys, these corporate power-brokers for lack of a better name - as such - have their influence on the way that things are done - That these powers,  have their henchmen, their overseers, their drones and their mouth-pieces and their hacks - their representatives who are so necessary as pillars of the system - of a system that is designed to keep a majority of the population thinking as servants....loyal servants of manbeast disguised as manchild -  because manchild always presents as having good intentions...when young...And this is the great delusion...So what happens...This is what we are here to discuss...This is part of the great research that takes place at this university at least in our department....thank the goddess - in our department!  What I hope to show you is a true radicalism that is continually reinventing itself, constantly groping for air and open space, a radical psyche that simply is, that exists, that asserts itself, and that, by virtue of evading altogether the trappings of manbeast, represents as itself the great alternative to the delusion. Imagine the reaction to a single person who dissents, who really decides whether out of frustration or exhaustion or simply out of whimsy - pure impulse - to be herself - to move against the tide. This is a revolution, mind you, that begins everyday, that has begun, that has been moving forward for decades now, but which is in constant danger of being squashed and repressed at any given moment. And even tonight I fear - nay - I know with absolute certainty - that my adversaries are poised and waiting for me to falter.  If it not a major crime in itself that I am a woman who dares utter these things, my critics mention my age as well as some sort of evidence against my credibility... For you see... But at this point a figure rose up in back of the room, pointed a long, pinkish finger and spoke in an ambiguously feminine voice: I think you've had your say, m'um. I think you've said enough for one night! Adding drama to insult, Bourgeois-Pain remained calm, impassive, nonplussed by the outburst, nodding her head as if expecting such an outburst on cue. "It was almost prophesied, one might say, that someone here, in our midst, would betray me. The hecklers started laughing; there were at least two or three of them, wearing hoodies,  rising out of their formerly inconspicuous postures. My only question is whether you be hired drones - representatives of manbeast  paid to harass and bully me or would you happen to be a sampling of those lost, misguided unhappy  weaker vessel sellouts acting out your codependent martyr fantasies on the altar of man worship? The hecklers continued, their booming androgynous, inexplicably British-sounding voices -  emanating from behind where an exotic indoor plant was standing: We've heard your views - now we could use a discussion. Will you answer questions? "Before deciding to railroad this intended lecture - you might have the decency to state your real agenda. " But at this point the audience was reacting against the disruption - in a show of rhythmic clapping on behalf of Bourgeois-Pain. The hecklers looked at one another, but could not decide whether to unburden themselves of their disguises and reveal their true identities. It was evident that half the crowd was perhaps somewhat  unemphatic and conflicted in their views. The murmur of the audience's confusion began welling up into a crescendo of voices - unsure of what to do next. One young woman suddenly stood up - took off her hat and sweater - literally let down her long chestnut hair - and began speaking as if called upon - "Yes..hi...hello... I just wanted to say that a lot of us here respect what you represent here at this university - Katherine. You're like a living icon of some huge event in history that none of us were there for. And we thank you for that...Uhm...we're well aware of your integrity as a radical critic of the establishment - the man problem and all that - but without denying the need for solidarity and higher awareness of inequity and mysogyny, etcl, honestly - some of us here just don't feel the need to go in the same direction - if that makes any sense. Maybe we just haven't experienced enough of these injustices directly to know what you mean - but for the time being - we're comfortable taking another path - less political perhaps - I guess you'd call us "practical types" - but you know, it's a different time - and actually I think people out there are getting the message or have already gotten the message - so I'm very hopeful. I guess I or we don't feel the need to be as radical. Because if everyone knows and accepts the ideal of relations between men and women - then that sort of has to have an effect eventually....doesn't it? Does that make any sense? Several young women beside her slowly nodded in the affirmative. Katherine Bourgeois-Pain let out an uproarious belly laugh. "Bless you - all of you young "practical moderates" of the third wave! If only theory guided practice so smoothly as you imagine...When you start to sense the delay in the wished-for outcome (that you all claim to be fighting for) - you come see me!" "But we do support you in spirit." - said another young woman, wearing a RedSox jersey and a baseball cap. "We've chosen our own path...and we feel that real progress is being made. We're comfortable with men - because we don't allow them to threaten us. We won't permit it. Are you saying that you think us naive?" "I am not here to incite or re-ignite a generational quarrel...among the sisterhood. But I do plead with you - my ladies - to compare - your fortunate and somewhat fortuitous positions - with the hundreds upon thousands of millions of women, workers, housewives, young girls, mothers, daughters,  - all of them persecuted, marginalized, thwarted, scapegoated  in countries all over the globe that remain culturally backward - permeated by the spirit of manbeast and his co-hort, misogynist. Are you seriously going to sit here and say that because you don't personally feel the heat or encounter their misfortunes that - this threat is not real, that your support and solidarity is not absolutely essential?" "Okay ...wow...I suppose you DO have a point. But...I just think that every generation has their own method for dealing with the problems...And I'm just saying this to explain that we're not against you necessarily even if we take a different tack...Because we've read your books and all. It's not like we're forgetting you." But at this point, the hecklers had successfully organized themselves and agreed upon a plan...One of them took off the hoodie to reveal the pale, pasty, curly-haired head of a goof, half-smiling and half-confused. 
"Hey - everyone - we decided to crash this shindig...uhm ...because we believe  us guys have a right to be here...and I don't agree with what was said about manbeast...I'm mean c'mon...that's not right...You can't lump us all into that category...." Another heckler was even less kind and diplomatic. "Your time is up, I'm afraid, my dear, dear lady. You've had your say. Let the younger generation speak. Give them your blessing....step aside...retire...." And so the chant began: "retire....retire... the old and weathered must retire..." and ceased after only a minute. But Fiona was in the crowd as well. Incensed by the rude treatment her aunt was enduring, she stood up on a chair and remarked: "Observe ladies, how these thuggish interlopers, these beastly ones have come to fleer and mock at our solemnity...You will not erase my auntie's wisdom by trying to shout her down. Rise up and fight! Rise up and fight!"