Friday, 27 November 2003
Thanksgiving day, 10:14 am.
In honor of the blessed holiday, the editorial staff of the Concordance to THE COMPLEATE WORKES OF QUIN, will, for this hour preceeding the annual gorge (something the editorial staff has for years attempted to avoid without success, due to the hurt feelings of, not only those who have claim to blood ties, but seemingly of the entire world) (1) will digress from the usual citation to relate the charming holiday story which follows.
A Charming Thanksgiving Story
On the eve of the blessed holiday of consumption, (2) it is written that the editorial staff of the Concordance to THE COMPLEATE WORKES OF QUIN went forth to a hostelry of a man whereat was dwelling blood ties of said staff.
Upon arrival, and following a joyous reunion, the husband, beloved of the blood held forth.
"Welcome and good cheer," quoth he, "for I have pictures of great joy to show thee."
Staff approached with moderate, qualified, and delimited cheer. The beloved husband of blood tie had greatly improved the living of the blood, for which staff was grateful. Verily, staff and the beloved husband had at times sat in the darkness of a suburban Texas pre-dawn morning, among the scents gasoline, new mown lawn, of concrete, newly hosed and glissening in the coming light of day. Together they had sat together sharing the silence of flannel nightgown and shirt, strong brewed dark coffee, heavy with sugar and cream, and listening to the waking of that far distant city--birds, happy dogs, and rubber tires on asphalt.
Still, staff approached with caution. Seeming peace does not always indicate an end to strife, and the downy sound of comfort may well muffle the memory of truth.
And so it was, in a hostelry on the eve of the blessed holiday of consumption, the staff approached the beloved of her blood to view his joyous images. One man's joyous images are another sadness.
From a pocket or small bag a small digital camera was produced. "Cute," or some such remark of compliment made the staff. Smiling, the beloved husband of the blood replied, "yeah, this baby has 3 pixels." Sharing the joyous moment of technology, the staff responded in kind. "Yes, mine has four pixels," then, recognizing the potential faux pas, continued, "but of course, it's much bigger, it couldn't fit in a pocket nicely like that one, well, it can fit in a pocket, but a bigger pocket . . ." At that staff stopped abruptly. Beloved husband was flipping through pictures. Holding the small screen out for her perusal. The husband of the blood was looking for images of his daughter () and dogs, but on the way to these, he paused. He was happy and proud. For lo, the image showed in the bright color this age showed the carcases of five proud stags () strung on branches like Absalom. They were rent asunder from their breasts to their bellies which were red from the gashes in their flesh.
The staff looked away, but could not pass in the smiles of politeness that was expected. "You know I can't approve of those pictures of dead dear," staff said. The smile on the face of the beloved husband hardened; his accent grew thicker. "Well, here's another one," or some such thing, he said. And more death appeared on the screen. Staff made more comments of dissent. The tie of blood remonstrated from the hostelry bed where she had reclined, now sat up sharply smiling with her light tight fear of all conflict. She said light nonsenscal things. Ending with "you know I just want everyone to be happy." Staff replied "We are happy, aren't we happy? We both know how we feel about this." ()
How many pictures of slaughtered beasts recorded in the mystical language of 1010101010101, is not known. Topics changed to others less important than death and the love of killing. But when others arrived, beloved by all, the pictures and strories resumed. There was the usual right of passage when staff was heard to say that it was known that none of their minds would be changed regarding this. At these moments, there is always an "in your face" statement made by the husband of the blood. An agressive moment of defense of his view of himself as a person of goodwill, something he believes of himself with all his heart and mind and soul. More stories ensued. The killing of a two hundred pound wild pig, white and fleshy. Much the same size and consistency of the mother of the staff and blood tie. Of this beast 'taken' and more beasts to be 'taken' in the spring of the year. All to be sliced into pieces and left in the huge freezers in the garage of suburbia. The story of the sighting of a huge bobcat was told. Many times the husband of the blood described his 'scramble for his rifle' until in confusion and a misguided attempt at reconciliation, staff was heard to say, "Was he coming for you?" and in frustration the husband replied "I was scrambling for my gun, I was in the truck (), I would have killed that sucker." (). And later, "If I had taken him, we would have had him stuffed and put in the living room."
Just before leaving, the husband of the blood tie, produced the camera once again, "Now, here you go," he said calling the staff by given name, "I thought you'd like the scenery in this one." By this time in the evening, other pictures had been seen. Beautiful pictures of far off lands with mountainous peaks tipped in snow. Again the staff approached, believing that perhaps this was husband's own attempt at reconcilation. She did not look closely at the image at first, for the screen on the camera was small, and she focused indeed on the scenery in the background. A great plain of seeming grasses floated in the background, and through a mist of fatigue the staff heard the husband saying, "See, there is the lease, the broad flat land, isn't that pretty?" And, "yes, it is," she replied, oblivious to the figures in the forefront of the scene. One must suppose that this wasn't the response looked for, for the husband of the blood went on, "And look at him, isn't he a beauty?" And focusing, the staff saw that in the forefront of the tiny image, was the husband, holding in his arms the head of a stag, dead with it's rack broad and shadowed. And with sadness, she realized that this was not what she had thought, an attempt at peace within the moment, perhaps even a recognition of a thoughtfulness of the ideas of others, but another defense of the love of the power over death. More pushing of man's dominion over other creatures as quoted in Genesis. A belief so viscerally important to the husband that it in some way defined his idea of who he was. A kindly, happy killer. A man of bloodsport, a Christian man, a lover of dogs, but a believer in his right to enjoy a good and bloody death.
This enjoyment of the kill, the blooding, the gutting--this pride of right over life and death, the image of man made in the image of god, an image crafted around killing and death, not of mercy. Or if of mercy, of mercy only to the chosen. This hardening of the empathy for beasts not man, so that they are slaughtered for sport, for the enjoyment of it, is a great mystery. It is a conscious decision to remain low. To ignore the highest teachings of the greatest of teachers of the centuries. It is very strange.
But the end of the story is stranger still. Much of mankind is without humor, without irony, without a vision of its continual satire of itself.
Staff was given gifts upon her leaving. One of which she is wearing now as a reminder, like some wear a cross, a star, a pentagram, or a turban. Staff is wearing a gift from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. A pair of red flannel pajamas gifted by the tie of the blood covered with smiling white reindeer, their racks spreading broadly in a charicature of themselves.
cliches: The truth will set you free. Truth is stranger than fiction. The Truth is out there.
12:51:17 PM [Macro error: The file "E:\www\#itemTemplate.txt" wasn't found.]
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