The Gods
"The Emperor of the South Sea is known as Change. The Emperor of
the North Sea is called Dramatic. The Emperor of the Centre is
called Chaos. Change and Dramatic met every so often in the
region of Chaos. Chaos always treated them kindly and virtuously.
Change and Dramatic said, 'Everyone has seven orifices so they
can see, hear, eat and breathe. Chaos does not have these. Let us
bore some holes into him.' Each day they bored a hole into Chaos
... but on the seventh day Chaos died."
by Chuang-Tzu
Life too often functions at its lowest, meanest, nastiest level
... some who've passed through the mouth of the cat
would say that life is always down and dirty ...
but I have been stunned at odd moments by the selflessness of
strangers. Years later, reflections upon these generous acts
still have the power to trip my heart and tighten my stomach. We
are capable of so very very much, and yet we are seemingly
content to exist without challenges, knowing that these
situations define us. It's not a paradox but a contradiction.
More than anything else, contradiction seems to most accurately
describe humanity.
We are all condemned by the matrix in which we subsist, and most
of us realize during our formative years that the elements of
that matrix are accidental, if not capricious. Hence every young
man who becomes a soldier is already burdened with the myths and
legends of his culture ... before he ever dons a uniform he
imposes visions of the past upon the future ... ignoring the
intermediate present as a mere phase of his
metamorphosis into the prototypical paradigm. This immaturity is
truly a phase, but the values inculcated during that maturation
persist throughout our lives. We imagine that the goal
is the most important part of life while the here and
now is the only life we ever really know. Nobody ever
arrives in the putative future ... and if we manage to
survive life's unfairness long enough to acquire some insight, we
are privileged to put our past into perspective. I've never heard
of anyone wise enough to understand it all.
Those of us who volunteered for service in the Vietnam war were
the spoiled and pampered baby-boom generation that inherited all
the best and brightest benefits of the Good War
without earning any part of it ... and nepotism has proved to be
its own punishment. We were the first generation in human history
to be reared on film fantasy and television titillation, making
our heroes larger than life, and presenting us with predictably
happy endings. They were fairy tales writ large and
persuasive upon impressionable minds. We were raised with the
arrogance of rectitude, and inspired to uplift those unfortunate
enough to be other than apple pie Americans. It was our
quest to convert the world. We had a mission to redeem our
inheritance by sustaining the attainments and ambitions of our
elders. We were true believers in the new trinity: Welfare,
Technology, and Mammon. Our only regret was that our stage was
not larger ... but communism was a scourge that we could ferret
and harry worldwide. We were paladins christened by the god of
war with a cause, and looking for a fight!
We were children of our time, so we shared universal
consciousness in our global village. Some of us
were cat skinners and others were trekkers
because there were different strokes for different folks
... it didn't matter how you got to the top of the mountain, it
only mattered that you got there ... even if
there was a nebulous nowhere, an Erehwon or
Nirvana. We were doing good, doing well, and doing right. Our
friends sang folk songs and served in the Peace Corps, or took
their nursing skills to remote locales, or served as advisors in
distant villages ... and we wondered if all the work would be
finished before we were middle-aged. So we made plans to conquer
the interior landscape when the shrinking globe resembled our own
backyard. It was exciting and invigorating. The world was our
oyster ... and it contained the promise of a lustrous pearl!
Because our defining battles were the most recent in humanity's
struggle, our conceited fancy inferred that they must be the
greatest ... so from leader assassinations and race
riots to the Tet Offensive and the Kent State massacre, our
delimiting involvements became the hypercritical battle lines
that have alienated and factionalized our communities of families
and neighbors and coworkers. Discrimination and mistrust are
eroding the foundations of the Promised Land.
Our modern minstrels observed that battle lines were being
drawn by people carrying signs saying HOORAY FOR OUR
SIDE! ... but nobody's right if everybody's wrong.
So for every step we took forward, we were pushed back two ...
and for every gambit or ploy, a counter ... until we were stymied
in a quagmire. Our icons were resisted, our catechism resented
... the great unwashed they not only didn't want us,
they didn't even like us! ... us! ...
the darlings of creation! ... the pinnacle of evolution! Unloved,
distrusted, and even despised. Actually, not entirely. Many
wanted our gifts of food and medicine and prosperity,
but without the entanglements of us. We were living (and
dying) through all the bad commercials promoting envy and
jealousy and greed. There was no possible way for Americans to
have bad breath and body odor! ... Americanism
resolved all those niggling little problems, so they
just simply didn't understand. And if they didn't understand,
then we just had to try harder! After all, we were
getting better, every day in every way, and we were
bound to succeed if we tried hard enough.
Except that trying harder costs more ... more time,
money, lives ... and that's when the gods started fighting
amongst themselves ... the bankers were piqued at chiselers, and
luddite's begrudged techies. People began to wonder, in our
collective cost-benefit analysis, where the flavor had
gone and when we were going to start having fun ...
after all, life is all about sensitivity and
sensation, but only the good
parts. There are no bad smells or unconsummated wishes or
negative vibes permitted in the Brave New World; and nobody is
supposed to get bored or tired or hurt. And the Big
Bookkeeper in the Sky was complaining about the profit
margin ... things were getting too expensive in our microcosmic
stroke economy. Inflation was affecting the cost and
quality of warm fuzzies ... they almost weren't worth
trading. We should find a way to synthesize them and improve the
distribution network ... not like small pox blankets in the
bad old days, but something that will pacify the
powers that be and make us content. The graffiti
defacing the rubble of our blighted uberkultur proclaims
that the only way to cope with the coming resource wars and
raging pandemics is to get stoned, zoned, blitzed, totally
contented to the max!
In our cotton candy world, tooth decay and upset tummies
would not be permitted. We believed that right action
could only produce positive results, with no adverse side effects
... so sex, drugs, and rock an' roll were our indulgences. But if
right is whatever feels good afterwards, as
conventional wisdom posits, then the unpleasantness of war must
be likened to lifesaving surgery or life-giving childbirth as
being fundamentally wrong ... with the defense of the
lesser harm or the greater good being mere
quibbles in a hedonistic pantheon, which is here and now
for some and hereafter for others. The concept of a
deontological quest is so abstruse and arcane that it isn't even
considered tenable in the modern realm.
As our armor got more and more tarnished, being an obvious
manifestation of our hidden corruption, the military declared
that camouflage would be the new uniform style, and the
stains that protestors added just made us harder to detect. Some
of us even wore our stains like a mark of distinction, not unlike
the fruit salad and other trash cluttering our
appearance. Clutter was good ... it got you off the
radar and permitted you to operate in the shadows without
oversight, without accountability. Doing the right things for the
wrong reasons was just routine, and since there was no point to
proliferating Americanism, the military could be sent anywhere to
do anything. Success didn't matter. Tradition didn't matter. The
last best hope didn't matter ... as long as the gods
were satisfied. The huddled mass of us could live in smoke-free
techno-domes and consume fat-free legal tender ... the Statue of
Liberty guaranteed it. America the beautiful ... land of the
brave, home of free-love.
In all this self-promoted greatness, it doesn't seem to have
occurred to anyone that some things are beyond price, that
individuality and dependency are mutually exclusive, and that the
Humpty Dumpty egg cannot be repaired. A do your own
thing society cannot cooperate to accomplish collective
goals. Despite Apostolic plaudits and Marxist plaints, some
flowers are attractive and some weeds are useful, but we know too
little about things and their relationships to heedlessly change
everything. In the war of ideas, as in the war of people and
property, the objective is not coexistence, but extermination.
Humanistic tolerance presumes dominance and control ...
such as the deviant minority being granted largess by the
omnipotent majority. Intolerance is a reaction to
incursion, a response that expels the invasion. A culture that
ceases to acculturate ceases to exist. A society that does not
value its past cannot value its future. Tradition only exists in
the present. Too many good men and women have died to preserve a
respectable way of life for it to be blithely abandoned by
ignorant sensualists, by effete aesthetes. My forebears and
comrades did not die on the battlefield so America could
repopulate with freaks and creeps and sneaks!
Of late, the god of war has been ignominiously stuffed into a
dark closet, but the other gods should beware his wrath. The
deformation of America is subject to the same intractable laws as
nature, with every action having a reaction and every effect
having a side effect, except that these are impersonal ...
America may not rebound, but may be displaced or replaced, just
like the many fallen civilizations of the past. Woe betide the
dreamers and deceivers who think themselves immune from the
monstrous changeling they've wrought!
"The Lord Yuan of Song dreamt in the middle of the night that a
man with dishevelled hair peered in at him through the side door
and said, 'I have come from the depths of Tsai Lu and was on my
way from the clear Yangtze as an ambassador to the Lord of the
Yellow River, when a fisherman called Yu Chu caught me.'
Immediately Lord Yuan woke up and asked a diviner to find out
what this meant. 'This is a sacred turtle,' said the diviner. 'Is
there a fisherman called Yu Chu?' asked the Lord. 'There is,' he
was told. The Lord said, 'Command that Yu Chu comes here.' Next
day, Yu Chu arrived and the ruler asked him, 'What have you
caught recently?' He replied, 'I have caught a white turtle in my
nets recently. It is about five feet in circumference.' 'Present
your turtle,' said the ruler. When the turtle came, the ruler
couldn't decide whether to kill it or keep it. His heart was
troubled, so he asked the diviner, who said, 'Kill the turtle and
use it to make divinations and receive an oracle.' So the turtle
had its shell removed and seventy-two holes drilled into its
shell for divination. Not one of them failed to offer a good
oracle. The sage said, 'The sacred turtle could manifest itself
in a dream to Lord Yuan but could not escape the nets of Yu Chu.
It had sufficient wisdom to give seventy-two correct divinations,
but it could not escape having its vital organs cut out. This is
how it is, wisdom has its limits and even spirituality has
something beyond its reach. Even perfect wisdom can be defeated
by a multitude of scheming people."
by Chuang-Tzu
by Bock Pauldron
... who is a Vietnam War veteran, a social worker, and freelance
writer; with works published in professional journals and
literary magazines. His work has appeared previously in this
periodical.
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