— Like the hornet, beauty can be savage and ironic. Splendidly arrayed and ruthlessly efficient they feed upon their foes without censorship. Their horrific bite, paralyzing sting or ghastly aroma is a specific statement of intent. Our senses are provoked and we assume a kinship beyond the realm of reality. We think we can escape the orbit of our own mortality and we both create and in certain circumstances immolate.
Sometimes we become so full of ourselves, that we create unwilling and unwitting victims and make lengthy reasons why these values should be universal. We imprison mortal minds within the hubris of fear and fitting in. We create gods and sacrifice imperfect virgin souls, instead of owning up to our own avarice and greed.
We tend to idolize youth and depict their angst as somehow reasonable for their collective ages but in reality, giving ground so we are not consumed by 0ur own insecurities. We sing ancient hymns that are sung in subdued voices and project holiness with a bowed head and a contrite heart. But it is not really ashamed because behind us several rows back are those heathen, who dare cough during this holy time. And old ladies and men assess the length of a dress or of hair. As Gatekeepers keep meticulous records of attendance and how many dimes are contributed.
I sense that some of these representatives are as clueless as we are. Because before we were sitting on committees and dictating where people can live or their own morality we were sinning. Now the sins I talk of are not the petty white lie but a bit of a scandal we wish to hide. Our own hideous venom washes aware the veneer of those altruistic motives. It is not that we cannot be decent, but that decency is probably flawed.
Our artists strike back. Knowingly they depict nature in it’s varied shades and sizes. An alert elder looks quizzically at a painting thinking he sees something but can’t quite figure it out, while the artists wink knowingly, that their conspiracies have gone unseen. Even bolder the brush strokes become. Even louder the cries of the ministers of truth while their conspirators shout oratories as more dupes follow along like a monkey with a stun gun.
As I see it, I am NOT the ONLY ONE, who gets ‘IT.’ We are like ships trolling in the deep waters of a bay, in from the storm and safely secured by mooring. Who can harm us now?
And who is the antichrist? and who is Satan?
To some, everything is known by God and that Science is a lie and while I do not count myself as an adherent of Richard Dawkins, I do get the sentiment in ‘One Tin Soldier’. As we are encouraged not to mix drinking and driving, we should not use religion as scientific proof of anything, although the venomous Christian-haters are the opposite side of the proverbial coin. Their Anton Lavey vehemence is actually quite comical or just plain pathetic. As I see it, you do not agree with something, move on. That really does work, especially when life and death are not involved.
Because we are part of nature and part of the kingdom, so to speak, we have our own beauties. Our beauties are icons of history like Marilyn Monroe, who was cherished for little more than her blouse bunnies. Kurt Vonnegut introduced his new characters by their genital size and ultimately about the unused area on the whole. This may seem superficial or an artist putting this spin on culture, much as the quadri-amputee in ‘Johnny Got His Gun’.
The bottom line is everyone has their own kind of god. And our holy grail is what motivates us, whatever that is. And like any beast of burden, we all will lay prone one day and that beauty hopefully will be over-ridden by our own deeds. If we sting more than we pollinate we will die out. The flowers will wither by the unrelenting sun and the youth that once was, will be like an antique grandfather clock, which keeps time for just awhile.
I remember visiting my grandparents and at certain times the clock would chime. As I lie in the bed in an old house that I have dreamed about as an adult, I felt safe, for awhile. Total darkness gave me the creeps, particularly there as if the old clock was some kind of harbinger.
As I saw the eerie landscape in dark shadows and the old house, with it’s mysteries I felt strangely drawn to this picture., Like one of those bees who flew back to it’s nest, I felt kind of safe.
I guess my own private hell prefers the rain. Perhaps as an equalizer, depriving my oppressor of a certain territory — my own privacy! I wanted to find some dark corner, to hide from the monsters that chased me in my dreams. I loved the snowfalls that painted the ground in sufficient enough depth so as to protect me from harsh diminishment. I loved the ice cycles that were like life is slow motion in a world that seemed like a refigerataor freezer.
While I harbor resentment, that is the part of me, that indicates how shallow that emotion might be. That I am very far from perfect or adequate, I guess. Regardless, I am here now, trying to find some room to breathe and being closer than I can ever remember. Not needing the rain to hide the tears of frustration that feel in our house.
Everyday I feel this kind of pain, and each day the haze begins to lift. I see out from a curtain, past the dewy grass and the threatening tumbleweed, that fostered mayhem.