Concentric Circles

The ignorance of the grub.  The ignorance of the ant.  The ignorance of the blind new puppy.  The ignorance of the starling.  The ignorance of the lion.  The ignorance of the orangutan.

The ignorance of the Everyman.  The ignorance of Alan Turing and Ludwig Wittgenstein, of Madame Curie and of Madame Blavatsky.

We know nothing of the big picture.

 

Illuminati

Alan Turing, John Maynard Keynes, Ludwig Wittgenstein, Frank Ramsey, Bertrand Russell and G. E. Moore, all occupying the same sacred ground between the Two Great Wars.

 

Channeling the Inner Elvis

Is your heart filled with pain?

Shall I come back again?

Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?

 

Overheard in the Box Seats

"Watch the old man with the rubber rapier try to defend himself, after the hyenas are released from their box.  It is an amusement that we have."  

And then, sotto voce - "The hyenas will act in concert until he is down."

 

Leaving No Stone Unturned

Grave robbers severed the hands and the feet of the Christ.  Pickled them in brine, bound for reliquaries.  All in the service of the almighty drachma.

And they did this on the sabbath, no less.  The day before He rose.  

He rose whole and complete, which only added to the mystery.  A shadow body, greater than the first.

We all have them, waiting in reserve.  All, that is, except that God the Father, the Vengeful One, erased the souls of the two robbers, leaving them to roam the earth like abandoned dogs.

 

Erwin McDonall Told Me This Tale

That he hasn't hit anyone since the fourth grade.  But towards the end of their marriage, he got so angry at his wife that he opened the hutch in the dining room, took out her grandmother's porcelain serving tray (the big one, the one you could put a turkey on), and smashed it to bits on the floor.

He had to do this, he said, to demonstrate to her how rotten he felt, in general.

The passionate moment passed, but these many years later the feeling of deepest regret still has not.

 

A Thought That Continually Haunts Me

Is that it is nearly finished, and therefore I need to put a bow around it.  But the very act of putting a bow around it causes it to ossify and later to collapse.  And the collapse carries with it an undermining of the meaning that has undergirded my life.

I can't find a way out of this conundrum.  I feel as if I am trying to box my way out of a wet paper bag.  Futility sets in.