Betwixt and Between

I finally remembered to take the little glass jar out of the freezer that I had saved a few precious drops of a long-ago summer thunderstorm from a day when the sky was dark and the rain drops hit so hard they exploded with spray a foot into the air, and I tossed the contents back into the air. I had felt guilty, withholding this bit and hoped that as an offering, it would be acceptable.

Of course it has rained often since that day, but I refuse to consider the possibility, even if the beating of a butterfly's wings in Beijing in April can disrupt the weather in Toleodo in October, that two teaspoons full of thunderstorm could have anything to do with the drought. Coincidence has led to many to perform bizarre rituals for centuries to no effect without ever entertaining the possibility that A happening did not have anything to do with B happening except to precede it in time and occur in relatively close proximity.

Lately, well, not exactly-- since I've been thinking about some aspect of these issues since I was old enough to distinguish my thoughts from other random electrical discharges in the vicinity-- I've been trying to put into words something of a modern myth to replace the one that begins, "In the beginning, God...", since, as a non-man, that myth is a pretty bad one and has provided encouragement to those who have undertaken all sorts of abuse of my gender.

I also just cannot go along with the idea that if the universe consists of all that exists, there nevertheless exists some x that is not contained in the universe and is asserted to not only have caused the existence of the universe, but retains the capacity to micro-manage the beings within the universe in flagrant opposition to whatever natural laws appear to allow some being within the universe to predict with a degree of certainty the effect C that will be accomplished by doing A to any B. And, I've always been partial to Aristotle. I like the idea that the universe, being, as it is, the collection of all that exists, is finite. Expanding, contracting-- matters not, if something is, in any any sense of that word, it is to be found within the universe. Might be a very large number of existents therein, but no matter how large the number it would would be some number. A number sequence may well be seen to have no end but the criteria for any sequence can nevertheless be defined and, as such, contained within the collection of all that exists. And not only that, but between that what is, is also that what is not, which may in some circumstances be needed in order to differentiate between this is and that is, so that they don't become utterly undifferentiated, that is, a 'they are'. Nothing, therefore, can be seen to clearly exist. This is important because I am also not the least bit infatuated with the proposition that something cannot be and not be at the same time, in the same way, in the same place. Too stultifying, if you ask me. Ok, so you didn't, but then, you're reading this after all, aren't you?

Where was I? Ah.

Back to ontological reflections a la merde, as opposed to those cartesian meditations that assure us we can sleep soundly at night, just knowing that our senses can be trusted because God is Good, and anything that is Good wouldn't play tricks on us and create a world in which what we experience bears no resemblance to reality. Of course, it's very handy to trust our senses; any other option would create considerably more confusion than is absolutely necessary.

But I digress. I wanted to come up with a sort of myth, a story, if you will (or even if you won't) that, like the old one, didn't ever even mention the previous myth. No sense raising the hackles of those who have lived and will die in allegiance to the old myth. Easier just to state the new one and if it catches on, the old one will fade away, just like belief in the Gods and Goddesses of Olympus did. But one must concur that they have clearly lost their noumenosity--they are no longer capable of inspiring our projections which enable us to see in them an independent existence, to perceive in our lives their actions, as so many are able to do these days with their crucified friend. Athena, once shimmering gold in Her temple became one day just a statute covered in gold foil; then, easily stripped of her finery and finally no one even noticed when Her sacred body and those of her sisters were carted off as decorations for the palaces of the nouveau riche heathen.

So, here we go:

We find ourselves here, between the sky and a dusty earth, in a place of wonder.

Above, a golden star, whose warmth fuels life itself; below, a cauldron of molten rock whose fiery geysers flow into black rivers of new land.

Around us are mountains and deserts, valleys and oceans, forests and prairies, ants and elephants.

We find ourselves here, where careful observation yields astounding discoveries.

We find ourselves here, the offspring of those who survived—at least long enough for one thin strand of protein to entwine another:

Our ancestors may have known hunger, but did not starve to death.

Our ancestors may have fallen into raging waters, but they did not drown.

Our ancestors may have been on the menu, but weren’t eaten.

As children, we were told stories about who we are and where we came from.

Those stories were exciting and filled us with pride:

Those stories made us want to be brave and face danger with courage—to be like the men and women in those stories.

We understood that we should do at least as well with our lives as our parents and their parents had done with theirs.

We have met people who believe their story is the Only Story and the Only True Story. We have met people who believe that anyone who does not believe that story is doomed.

But—we find ourselves here and know that we did not choose our parents:

We did not choose the lands where we were born, the languages we learned to speak, whether we were to be men or women, tall or short, narrow or round, rich or poor; whether our hair was to be smooth or curled, black or orange, blonde or brown, or who we would fall in love with when we were grown.

And we know that our story hasn’t been written yet.

So how shall we write it?

--With words of love and encouragement or words of anger and recrimination?

Will we join together with our brothers and cousins, sisters and grandmothers to fight our common enemies: disease, hunger, fear and ignorance?

Or will we be the champions of ignorance and fight one another so that even more of our family will live in fear and suffer hunger and disease, poverty and prejudice?

We find ourselves here:

Let us consider well and long how we will write our story.

Admittedly, it shrieks from one haggard cliche to another, but one has to start somewhere. A long long time ago one of my friends, after reading something I wrote told me, "Next time the muse strikes, strike back!" Good advice, no doubt.