Though historians may beg to differ, it seems that humans have never been this close to self-annihilation. While wars rage and the earth gets trashed, the most pressing moral inquiry of the masses is this: “How can I get a better deal?”
A derisive snort and mocking applause announces The Presence in the corner.
“Hello, Holy Contradictions,” I mumble.
What I tease into words in the murky dawn might be the wind or a mouse scratching in the wall, but I feel certain something beyond is lurking in the cosmos. I offer greetings most mornings.
“Good day,” HC says, emerging from chimera to full status as a citizen unto itself. It has wings. It has legs. It has a beating, bleeding heart. “You aren’t wrong,” it adds from a perfectly formed mouth.
“You mean my sarcastic comment about the morality of acquisition? The Art of the Deal? Or the nearness of extinction?”
“It’s all rooted in selfish genes and the wrong-headed notion of survival of the fittest,” HC says with scorn. “You think you want fat lives, herd immunity, and evidence of superiority as indicated by possessions and an address on Easy Street.”
“True,” I admit. “That does sound good. Makes me want to be the fittest.”
HC snorts again. “Have you thought that through? C’mon. You’ve got the brain power to get beyond your genes. In the end, the Fittest will stand armed, paranoid, and alone. The winner of the rat race is a rat.”
“Nice platitudes,” I say. “Got a better way?”
HC shrugs. “Stop deluding yourself. No one survives. It’s Now that counts.”
“Thanks,” I snap. “I feel so much better.”
“The ultimate measure of fitness is how you love and protect the unfit. It’s time to break the light into itself, hold the Face of Anger in your hands, and let her bite you.”
My hands are fisted. “You are certifiably nuts,” I say in a low, edgy voice.
“And you are certifiably angry,” HC says with authority.
“Yeah. So, I’m supposed to bite myself?”
HC nods. “And hold the Faces of Joy and Justice but be careful. They’re elusive and explosive.”
“You’re seriously insane,” I say. “I can’t do any of this.”
“Oh, but you can,” HC insists, not at all sympathetic. “Hold all the Faces of Insanity in your hands and let them bite the hell out of you.”
I stare at my weathered hands. The biting has begun.
“I’d rather hold your face,” I plead, frightened.
“Oh, my little mosquito!” HC says gently. “What do you think you’re doing?”
A grim hilarity takes hold. I slap myself silly, and for now, we get on with it.
Short visits with an honest God 