On local levels,
reality is bursting out all over.
As the dear father, (an intellectual pipe-fitter), was bundling up his son to be sent off into a better, more civilized milieu he handed over the following advertisement, “Now that you will be out with the squires and the gentry, take careful note that by sundry signs and signals may you properly divine a gentleman’s particular position in the social strata; by the cut of his clothes, by the political beliefs he embraces, by the friends he collects and by the kind of tattoo he has on his knuckles.”
Just because a Real Revolutionist won’t admit something,
doesn’t mean that he’ll ever admit it.
(The following report is so pregnant with potential allegory and metaphor
that I am loath to even make much note thereof, so let it be just
every-man-jack-synapse for yourselves.)
The gate keeping guardian of one god’s paradise would periodically holler out
to the awaiting throng, “Okay, all the women with big thighs go in first.”
As it turned out, although both Attila and Tennyson were deeply religious and
spiritually committed men, their respective gods not only were not the same,
but moreover, were just barely twin brothers.
J.
