The DisEase of PoliTicks

I don’t recall a time when our political divide turned sustainable differences into an uncompromising contention, transforming constructive discussions into combative clashings, turning everyone into savage foes.

This is the fallout of propagating lies and misinformation masked as science and well caring, parading as paternal concern for the willfully ignorant multitudes transfixed by mass propaganda.

The smoking downward spirals of civility and prudence darken our skies.

Poisoning even the most stalwart with its whistling siren song.

Methinks evil communist forces are afoot.

Political anger is the weapon wielded in Washington by both parties and their corporate cronies against We the People, viciously turning us against one another in a souring feud. Bulldozing the foundation of our country, wrecking friendships, and severing family bonds. Creating an ambiance of fret, hate, revulsion, and racism.

Bitten by PoliTicks induces partisan addiction, causing inflammation of the psyche, resulting in myopia and obstinacy.

I am a recovering junkie of the PoliTick venom myself.

It helps to admit.

Recently, I confused a friend’s passionate comment as an attack on my character. I’m ashamed it happened. But as it is, it took that to start the recovery process.

While my friend and I have our differences in opinions, some spanning great distances, there are always bridges connecting us (veganism, for one). His observations and opinions have always given me pause for thought, no matter how antithetical to my enduring thesis of life, theories, and gruesome inevitabilities.

PoliTicks, like religious FanaTicks, is a disease of the mind. Infected, one cannot undermine the psychological ramparts the ego erects to protect its precious notions; no matter how fervently reasonability begs, we ignore.

However, for milder cases, there is a countermeasure.

A self-thrown gut-punch to the psyche.

Resulting in the appreciation of fallibility.

A receptivity for the probability of wrongness.

These finer faculties you gain by exploring a particular from multiple angles. It’s tough, I admit. But this is where varying ideas and respectful discourse comes to play in building harmony. As should the bitter-tasting thought of alienating a friend or family member over some nonsensical bull dung such as our psychopathically infused politics inspire.

My own gut-punch ushers in the next chapter of my life.

In keeping with my innate spirit, seen by the consensus as the repugnant rebellion of individualism, I’m returning to my anarchical paradise of old. The peaceful retreat into living with reduced emotion of circumstances I’m powerless to change. A contented life of de-energized politics, complete with its resurrected suspicion of the State, and every other damn thing that says it wants to help.

I’ll focus on my favorite things: veganism, family, friends, fast cars, firearms, and my misanthropic misgivings.

Too, I may write about health and fitness. Mine in particular, how at sixty-seven I can still do more chin-ups than you.

Godspeed.


Feature image courtesy of Matryx at Pixabay

Perception

From Where We See

They see and I see,
but from where we see, things appear differently.

Where they see their colorful illusions, the joys of life,
I see the dreadful pallors of an unjust fright.

They see clouds speckling a vibrant blue sky,
I see the contrails of fighter jets fly by.

They see the ocean waves crest high and true,
I see the mighty warships cut them through.

They see the gaiety of flowery blossoms covering  the earth,
I see the blood-steeped battlefields nourishing their mirth.

They see victory parades, loyalist colors flying a patriotic hue,
I see military conflict, war, and a bloody coup.

They see the exciting hustle and bustle of a vibrant downtown,
I see the rapes and pillages of villages burned down.

They see a God of love and forgiveness given their kin,
I see a myth fashioned to forgive them their sin.

They see energetic kids playing happily-go-luckily,
I see inanition from empty bellies swollen hungrily.

They see birds and bees pollinating the greens,
I see the herbicides and pesticides that silenced their wings.

They see the pitter-patter tracks of animal trails,
I see the spent and littered shotgun shells.

They see the comforts and pleasures of companion pets—
puppies, kittens, dogs, and cats.

I see the hell of slaughterhouses, factory farms, test labs—
their tortured animals, primates, and rats.

They see and I see yet for all the world from where we see,
things appear so damnably differently.


This is the re-envisioned version of a poem I wrote in 2017, and here it is four years later… How time flies, like bullets whizzing by. Screaming missiles through the sky.

Once Upon a Time

Once Upon a Time…

… there was Magic
Real magic, like your fantasies love to imagine
Then they stole our magic, little by little
Taming the mystical with rational reasonability

… there was Spirituality
Real spirituality, that orthodoxy can’t emulate
Because they stole spirituality, little by little
Slaying our spirit with rigid rituals of religion

… there was Dreaming
Real dreams, those you yearn to recall
Then they stole dreams, little by little
Defeating our dreams with unyielding notions of reality

… there was Freedom
Real freedom, freedom our forebears died to defend
But they stole our rights, little by little
Freeing our freedoms with conquering Marxist creed

… there was I
Real I, that you’re ashamed to embolden
Because they stole I, little by little
Defining our I to the onus weight of we

… there was Life
Real life, like you no longer realize
Because they stole our fire, little by little
Smothering our flame with their cold straight and narrow

Once upon a time… little by little


Featured image courtesy of smimbipi via Pixabay.com

Constant Revisability

I am a contradiction, perhaps.

A hypocrite, it might seem.

The complexities of existence and the constant current of conflicting data in this confusing time of cultural turbulence and global uncertainty leave me to entertain various contradictory notions at once. Thus my views are subject to constant revisability.

Regret

They say, as your hour draws near, you’ll regret the things you never did, you wish you had done.

But now, as I reach the end of my pier, I don’t.

I don’t regret not learning to scuba dive, rock climb, or bungee jump off a towering bridge.

I don’t regret not running a marathon, for fuck’s sake.

I don’t regret not traveling the world.

I don’t regret those drunken sexual orgies I never attended. Okay, well, maybe a little.

But I still have regrets. Hard regrets. Regrets for the things I did do. The people I’ve hurt, the animals I’ve killed, the ones I’ve caused harm.

My slights weigh heavy; it’s not a joke—the burden of my transgressions—the sins against the gods, goddesses, nature, and humanity.

So in this life or the next, I can ask no mercy, no compassion for that I’ve denied. I can only but bow my head and acquiesce to the atonement, regret the suffering I’ve caused.

Mindful

Mindful of the possibility that our conceptions, opinions, and ideas may be flawed is a brave and rewarding act of character building holding unlimited discovery.

To interrogate our demons, question our motives, and hold our precepts accountable, but most importantly, to entertain those premises we reject stays the possibility, the chance, to expand our world but requires courage equal to facing death. It may be a cherished part of ourselves we kill in the process.