Going Home

There was once a would-be “enlightened” monarch who said, “I’ve tried to be in alliance with artistic license, free speech, and political diversity as much as the next king, but I’ll tell you right now that if we don’t soon shred certain of those smart asses, they’ll soon shred us.”

It is not so peculiar that even the lowliest of Men are wont to write their autobiography; it is after all, about the only thing in life with which they have even a passing familiarity.  And:  Rather than having any sarcastic feelings toward those driven to such pursuits, you could instead feel sorry that the most exciting thing that ever happened to them was themselves.

What weight should no Man gladly suffer? 

The dreadful burden of having no desires.

The Real Revolutionist alone knows that if he is not free to be willfully silly, and consciously threatening, he is not free at all.

Man’s myths and religions have forever spoken of a “return home,” but ordinary consciousness cannot perceive the inner quirks lurking in such tales; it is rather that Man is like a child whose “home” moves to a new location almost every time he wanders from the yard.  The irrepressible expansion of Life keeps Man’s apparent residence in a continual state of flux; yesterday’s condo and garden of Eden is today’s vacant lot and office park.  The inner view of the “Prodigal Son” stories would be that it was not the heir who strayed, but his home and family; that is, the very backdrop of his ordinary connections to Life itself.

J