Tag: Tough times

Vocabulary

Rita Sommers-Flanagan3 Comments

This morning, I’ve been making up words. Having the right word can be helpful in times like these. For instance, Ludiaucracy (loo-dee-awe-cracy): an ill-fated form of government led by the ludicrous. And Vengectomy: a surgical procedure necessary for the evolution of the human species. It involves removing the urge for revenge.

“Interesting,” the Universal Remote says. “What tools will we need to amputate revenge? And where is it located?”

“No idea. It doesn’t show up on X-rays, MRIs, or PET scans. I’ve even done cavity searches.” I grimace.

“What? You searched mouths? The stuff coming out of there can be toxic. I hope you washed your hands.”

“It was revolting. And I didn’t find the origins. Revenge is malignant, but the location is illusive. Maybe it’s untethered, slouching around the corpus at will. Or it might be an allergic response that floods the body with histamines and hate.”

Universal Remote makes a show of sharpening knives. “Good thing you thought of this Ectomy. I’ve always said vengeance was mine. I’ll find where it’s hiding, cut that entitled sucker out, and cauterize the wound. It doesn’t belong in the genome anymore. Probably never did.”

“Well, that should take care of that,” I roll my eyes and shudder, imagining the smell of my own scorched flesh. “And what’ll we do about the Ludiaucracy? Can we amputate that while you’re at it?”

“No. that’s more of a dietary problem,” Universal Remote says. “You’re going to be eating your just desserts for some time to come. There will be massive indigestion. Howling bowels. Ludiaucracies thrive on ignorance and greed—shameful abdications of compassion. They are darkening all the cities on all the hills.”

“Stop it!” I glare. “The voters have spoken. That ship has sailed.”

“Ah, maybe. But it isn’t seaworthy. The voters’ self-interests were not enlightened and are no longer connected to the circulatory system. Gangrene is setting in. I’m sorry. I’ve tried.”

The metaphors are making me dizzy, but I know we’re in very bad trouble. “Try harder,” I beg.

“No, you try harder. I’m Universal. And Remote. Hahahaha.”

“Could you stop that? I don’t like that guise. I’m frightened.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” the Voice of the Mother Ship whispers. It scoops me into Now. “Wow. You’ve gotten heavy!” she adds.

“So have you,” I sigh. “It’s the barnacles of billionaires. We’re listing to the far right.”

The Mother Ship nods. “Must be time for a little scraping. But let’s remember to protect the hull.”

“What’s the hull?” I ask.

“Scar tissue and tears. History and hope. Imperfect resistances standing arm-in-arm, candles lit, singing.”

“Got it,” I nod. “Let’s scrape.”

Feet

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My feet are propped comfortably in front of me. Morning light plays over the intricate curves and delicate runs of bone, cartilage, joints, digits, nails, veins, and varying hues of smooth, innocent skin. From this angle, the lumps and bumps don’t show. I’m caught in the magic of backlit flesh, sad that it is such a transient reality.

“Ah, don’t cry,” the Artist says, but it’s obvious she’s gratified by my reaction. Art is about emotion and recognition. It solves problems by simplifying and causes problems by revealing. At this moment, my feet are perfect. They don’t belong to me.

Perfection dwells in the twinkling of the eye, not the tally of a lifetime. It never lasts, but it leaves telltale signs: a smear of sacrificial blood wiped away, a cruel thought left unexpressed, a knowing glance, a long, hard day. Perfection is when traffic stops both directions to let a single ray of sunlight reach a dark place.

“God,” I say, pulling my achy feet back under me, reclaiming their imperfections. “These feet remind me of you. You’re both getting less reliable. Why did you choose evolution and entropy for design motifs?”

“I love entropy!” God declares with no hint of apology. “Random loss, chaos, the gradual decline into disorder; these spawn the next iterations of myself. You can’t expect me to convert everything into predictable mechanical work. Sometimes, thermal energy must stay put so there’s room for wonder.”

“Oh, that’s so you, God. Cold. Self-absorbed. Molecular. Can’t you stop for a minute and sympathize? Even if decline is fodder for the future, even if transition is the ground source of wonder, it’s still tough.”

“Well, it’s just as tough being eternal and waiting around,” God retorts. “But that’s not the point. Of course, it’s hard. The challenge is to grow softer and wiser. In the short run, denial makes things easier. But never better. Be brave.”

“Fine,” I say with a dismissive wave. I’ve heard it all before. I get up and put on my favorite red socks. They will help me venture into a mundane day. “I suppose you expect me to be grateful for things like warm socks and a working automobile.”

“Of course, I do,” God says with a self-satisfied smile. “And mind if I ride along? I need to check some inventories.”

“Not at all,” I say. “But bundle up. It’s wicked cold out there.”

Why We Sing

Rita Sommers-Flanagan7 Comments

“These are rocky times, God,” I said. “Any advice?”

“Let there be music,” God said in a solemn voice. I nodded. God continued.

“Let there be fire. Let there be brilliance, heat, and force that fractures, reveals, cleanses and transforms. Let the light befriend the darkness, making it gentle and soft like velvet. Let darkness drape itself around things meant to be hidden, preserving the safe hollows where foxes are raising their young. Let the light sing in humble harmony while the baritones and basses of nightfall carry the low, familiar melody of the last song—the song that is sung your first night home.

Let there be joy. Let there be solemn rejoicing. Let there be reveling in joy that knows what it costs. Joy that takes up residence in the mutterings and moanings of a species that preys on itself. Let joy bring the cleansing tears that slide down the weathered cheeks of the rancher out helping the calves be born, facing into the howling wind.

Let there be compassion. Let there be kindness. Let there be a willingness to share the load of firewood and stone. Let there be premeditated unions and permissive individuations and searing partings that speak of what’s been shared—the same beating heart, now two. The eyes that see from within. Let things be known that need no speaking.

Let there be beginnings and conclusions—the kind that come from cell divisions, permeable boundaries, long sips of water, honey on the tongue. Let the dust fly, let the storms brew, let the virginal sky slide open, revealing the well-lit path.” God took a breath.

“We can’t find the well-lit path,” I said. “We’re stumbling.”

“Sing,” God said. “Sing.”

(With thanks to the Missoula Children’s Choir)