Not the kind of day that brings
one to the web to be useful. We
have held a consensus against
murder for some time, and so if
a jury in Boston convicts a de-
fendant of 30 counts along that
line, and a cop in South Caro-
lina is dismissed for gunning
a citizen down as he flees for
his safety, these events corres-
pond with what we already believe.
Persuasions to small adjustments
are not amusing, to anyone.
Still, a revealed malice, com-
mon to both instances; a revealed
perfection of intent of sadistic
destruction, as a recreation to
pursue with likeliest impunity,
strike our life experience as
very tiresomely familiar, and we
are brought back into the refrain
of an uncomprehending child. What
on earth did I do wrong?
I would not trust anyone who did
not endure this question today.
Irrational as it is, it comes
from the only conscionable pred-
icate: How could the place of my
trust conduct itself so violent-
ly, if I love it so?
We know, we do begin there, every
day - after chocolate, of course -
as if counting up the waking flock
of our affections and our duties.
We often find, they are at odds,
and discover what our purpose is.
It is not, to coin a phrase, to sit
and wonder why, Babe.
We have reversed our own jeans,
yet we admire the reputation we
then foist upon a God. It was
good enough for us, and a heap
better than the one traded for.
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