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Fade Out

CEE

    Humanists are existentialists without guts.
    I’m not highminded, nonfriends. That’s asking the moon. I’ve seen and heard too much. There are no saints among you. There Are No Activists. There Are No Advocates. There Are No Humanists. There is no “I care”. The literature, en example of Vonnegut, amazing, absorbing, is but in sum, a personal reality. The darkness of his mere being. And any very personal “WHY?!”—even that of the person holding the petition or walking a picket line, has Zero to do with the 7^th Cav shooting Indians out of the saddle or Ben Franklin shagging fourteen-year-old whores, or the Vanderbilts snacking on trout amandine while a beggar dies in their doorway...or Germans getting fried because they saluted the wrong flag. What we’re talking about, isn’t “I’ve been let down by the United States”, and has little to do with “I’ve been let down by life in these United States”—it’s, “I’ve been let down by Life Itself, for Life is finite, the better part is over and the world is no better. It’s way-The-Hell worse.” This is no fault of “isms”. Ideas are air; they do not in themselves, prime The Brute. The Brute by personal, human choice, is solely to blame. Accountability is inescapable, no matter how fast you can dance; at some point, you have to sleep. Or, age. And Rip Van Winkle is poignant reading, for a reason.
    Non-kamerades...your Truth is only Yours. Declare it! Don’t make that Truth a shell game. Your problem isn’t Dick Nixon or Dick Cheney, but that your own dick isn’t swaying proudly as you stroll through a world you’re building. That world has done been built. It was built, admired, inhabited, lived in, used, disused, complained about, condemned by the County, evacuated and had rocks thrown at it; it stood, sagged, grayed, mouldered, developed dry rot, became its own nightmare, burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. It isn’t Reality, anymore, and one can be as forward-thinking as they wish, but eventually, Time fastforwards over you. Anger, is one of 4 natural reactions. The other three are represented in the abstract, by a hunk of smellysweet teacake, whining sounds in the darkness and the final scene in Full Metal Jacket that has Pvt. Pyle in it.
    I take away from all this, the following: Sociology is a crock science, but if they’re right about innate human selfishness, what’s the fucking-point? Ask yourself that question. Then, make a choice. I’ve offered you 4, Above. You will one day, be making one of them. If I were you, I’d choose Right Now, before Molly Ringwald gets pregnant...because you know you won’t run thousands of miles, excepting in your head—where you already run, to get away.
    In my own cakewalk through the minefield, I found all ideas, as well as facts, factoids, tidbits, names, places, dates, to actually be dates, nummy sweetmeats, a Whitman’s Sampler fed me by home and church and school. As well as by my local library. Or the G.E. College Bowl. I never counted on Reality altering, not radically; you don’t, when you’re young. A made world I came to rely upon, was there one year and gone the next. Like the peace officer in Time Trax, I’ll never get back to where I was. But, again, ideas are air. Technology advances and science discovers, but beyond the rockbed of Math, if anything changes, it’s because someone changed it. I remember my Orwell. Do you remember yours?
    “Wait a second!” you cry. “You’re being far too narrow! ‘Human”, signifies ‘possibility’. The becoming, you know, the growth, the change! You can’t judge all the Earth, broad brush, single paint, because of Man’s mistakes! Just think, if Human was not as Human does...”
    Yes, but it is. And that’s the point, and I won the game. — CEE, 11/6/12

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