Tag: Reality

Familiars

Rita Sommers-Flanagan4 Comments

Photo credit: Anonymous Friend

My body is only vaguely familiar this morning. We greet each other suspiciously, as if one of us hails from the Deep State and the other from Nirvana. We shake hands, staring at our knobby knuckles and prominent veins, and try to agree on a reasonable plan for the day.

We’re joined by a Holy Threesome. My body and I glance at each other, wondering if we should genuflect or drop to our knees.

“Do you like the curled posture of prayerful supplicants? Knees bent, hands folded, head bowed?” we ask the Ubiquitous Coauthors.

“Not especially,” they shrug. “Reminds us of chained prisoners being shaved.”

“Did you hear that?” I ask my ears sarcastically. “Maybe they were just praying.”

My ears have become accustomed to hearing lies. Incredulity is our new constant.

We invite the Coauthors to join us for morning libations. All the Interdimensional Beings in the vicinity appear because the day is gray, and they have little to do. The Coauthors introduce my body and me as the hosts.

“And what are your names?” I ask as I pass around a plate of digestives.

They laugh. Crumbs fly from the communion table and the dogs happily lick them up.

My former selves also arrive uninvited. The supply of digestives, toast, and beer dwindles. My memories are conflicted, insights constrained, and my collective reach no longer exceeds my collective grasp. The raucous chatter irritates me.

“Quiet!” I demand. “I have a question for the Coauthors.”

I square my shoulders, face the Creative Force of the Universe, and ask, “Could you tell us the truth?”

“That’s a big ask,” they say. “Members of your species are busily denying history, science and common sense. Not sure what we can do about that.”

The Interdimensional Beings and my multiplicities gasp. “There has to be something you can do!” they shout.

The Coauthors shrug. My multiplicities look for ways to escape. The Beautiful Beings flap their wings, and panic shimmers in the heavy air. Our shared pulse is racing.

There’s a crash and then silence.

“I can’t breathe,” one of the Beings whispers.

My body remembers fainting when giving blood: the shrinking of my visual field, the removal of the tangible, the fight to fill my lungs.

We surround the Being. It’s a bird with a broken neck. The Glass it crashed into was not visible, but it was real. Is this the truth I asked for? The harsh realities of cause and effect?

“Where will you go now that you’ve shattered?” we asked the Being. Her body is disintegrating, her wings no longer discernable.

“Home,” the Being said. “Supper at six. See you then.”

Who’s Vetting This Damned Mess?

Rita Sommers-Flanagan11 Comments

Here’s how vetting works: Unbiased authorities carefully examine the basis of claims and issue a verdict of accurate, unlikely, or bullshit to help average citizens determine what to believe. When we decide not to trust credentialed authorities, we are prone to mistake our opinions for facts and our personal beliefs for reality.

But there’s a painful tension between belief and reality. Believing a falsehood doesn’t make it true. Or does it? The placebo effect is powerful. Maybe it’s possible to believe lies into reality.

“Excuse me,” God says.  “Could you give us a minute?”

My ancestors, friends, and readers slip out of the conference room in my head and quietly shut the door. I’m alone with an edgy God.

“Now listen,” God says. “Blind faith is dangerous. Some people think there is such a thing as ‘the word of God.’ Maybe. Maybe not. But I am not the Great Vetter in the Sky. You’ve got to vet things yourselves.  It’s relatively simple…”

I hold up my hand. “Let me stop you right there. Nothing is simple or straightforward about seeking the truth, and you know it.”

“You have education, language, and history,” God says.

I frown. “Yeah, right. And there are people who deliberately teach lies.”

 “But you have scientific methodologies,” God says.

I glare. “And we have science deniers. There are billions who don’t believe in the existence of germs and think carbon dating is from the devil.”

“Well, good grief. You have common sense,” God says.

I shake my head. “Nah. We believe that which is convenient or matches our needs or leanings. Con artists do quite well politically and financially.”

“But you’ve got eyes and ears and beating hearts,” God says in a firm and final voice.

 He packs his briefcase. I stand at attention, eyes wide open, hand over heart while the honor guard of God marches by.

Then I pull my hand down and stare at it. What, exactly, was I saluting? My feet take me to the garden. My eyes behold the dry brown hills and smoke-filled skies. I dig into the honest dirt and listen for the pulse of reality, raw and unhindered.

Bullshit breaks down and fertilizes tender green things. What goes around comes around. It is the earth itself who will do the final vetting.

“Sorry I was so harsh. We are helping where we can,” the Creator whispers from a sad, small space under the chokecherries.

“I know, Precious,” I whisper back to the Bleeding Heart of the Universe. “Of that, I am sure.”