Chapter Eight

So today I was waiting in the dentist's office and I got into a discussion which quickly turned into an argument with my grandmother. It was about politics. My nana asked me what I thought about the new supreme justice or person-in-the-supreme-court- to-be or something like that. To this I reply that I have no opinion because I don't follow politics. "Why?" It's pretty simple if you'll bare with me for a moment.

As introduction, let me define a unit of time, a scee, such that my friend Louis is about 100 scees. When I was 40 scees old, there was this boy I'll call Steven. Steven wasn't exactly the nicest kid, a little snobby and a little aggressive. He certainly wasn't the nicest kid to my brother either. Regardless, one day I forgot to do my handwriting homework and so when everyone else went out to recess, I went to the teacher's desk. His was on top, so I erased his name and put mine, thus letting you know that this was the only reason I introduced him.

Then when I was 50 scees, I had two friends who I knew weren't really my friends - Simon and Abel. At recess one day, I was sitting on a bench with Abel talking about something very exciting. I do believe there was a profit involved with the selling of some commodity, however I can't say for certain because at this point I was actually -20 scees and my brother was actually 50 scees. Anyway, while Abel was chatting up my brother, Simon sneaked under the bench and tied his shoelaces together. When my brother stood up, ready to run no less, he fell on his face. Very embarrassing. Simon and Abel got in a lot of trouble. All this is a complete lie, by the way. Except the part about Simon and Abel getting in trouble. That did happen.

My point is that the reason I don't have to follow politics is two-fold. One, it's actually bad for your health. I can prove this too. Politics is actually a compound word. Poly-tics, (n) poly- many; tics- things that suck your blood. There you have it. Bad for your health. The second reason I don't follow politics is that there are plenty of people who care about it more than I do who are going to keep it in check. There are plenty of television stations with people who dissect every other word these politicians (like electricians but for that system of bloodsucking parasites, you see).

My nana tried to persuade me that politics influenced almost every aspect of my life, so I should care about it. I countered by saying there are much better things to do with my time then follow politics. "Like what?" Like technology. I got a scowl. But seriously, I explained. Literally every aspect of our life is goverened by technology. Texting, email, news, internet, cars, lights, stoves, air conditioning, electricity. We would be horribly off if we lost all those for even one week. There would be chaos. We would destroy ourselves.

"Oh, and you think we could do better without politics?" Yes! Undeniably yes! We would be better without government for a week than without technology. "But you realize that you're saying government on every level. Not just federal, but local too, just like you're taking away cars and radios." Yes, I realize that and I still hold fast. She didn't buy it.

But consider this. For technology, I implied only those things running on electricity. Anything that runs on gears is fine. Any clocks etcetera wouldn't be effected. By the same card (or a similar card because they're not exactly the same, technically) once all government disappears, any vigilante-types, people with heroic ideals and a sense of justice wouldn't disappear. Remember that blackout in New York. There was mass chaos. But police officers still had radios, there were still flashlights. If government disappeared, there would be a lapse in moral upstanding, but it would be righted and civic order would return, to a degree. I believe in homo sapiens that much. But if technology disappeared, police forces would be alienated and cut off from each other. Fire departments would be useless with no means of travel. There would be no trucks to deliver goods or food. Food in supermarkets would quickly run out, so that would cause early rioting and looting. People in cities would try to get to farms, but that food would quickly disappear. We would rip the flesh off each other for a meal. It would be total chaos.

What I couldn't bring up was my support of anarchy as a political stand. My nana would flip. But it does lend itself well. Anarchy, to me at least, is not chaos. It simply suggests that there should not be a government. "Anarchism is founded on the observation that since few men are wise enough to rule themselves, even fewer are wise enough to rule others." Anarchism asks the question "Why is there a government. Why can't we do without it?" The way I see it, even if I don't take an active political role, this mindset alone is good enough. I don't have to answer the question, I just have to ask it. I have to let people know it exists. And then the government has to answer it. And they have to give a legitimate answer. If they can't, then just asking the question will let people know. If the government can't justify it's actions legitimately, then it's time for change. I won't be the one to start that change, and I probably won't even partake in it. I am not a revolutionary. I just swim in the wind when i feel like floating and walk on my own when I feel like walking. I am free. But for those people involved in the way the wind blows, for those people who want to know which way it's blowing and why it's blowing that way and why it isn't say, blowing the other way when maybe it should, I only give this advice: if you don't understand why the wind is blowing, ask. If after you ask, it still doesn't make any sense, it might be time to get rid of the wind. But only if it's blowing down your house.

Chapter Seven

So there's a field of flowers of every possible color that flowers come in that is beautiful. It looks like that Seurat enveloping your bare feet. It kind of tickles. Yes, it’s just like that Seurat. Except there is no picture when you step back or as you fly over in one of those old 1-seat model red planes. But if you were in one of those, whether it was covered in dust or whether someone was caring and wiped it down, the air would be cool as it rushed against your cheek, hitting a perfect balance with a warm but not humid southern-winter day. You would notice that the grass grows sparsely back on the ground. You could find a piece to whistle through – that way you do when you put it between your thumbs-if you looked hard, but this is a sea of flowers. Grass has no place, no claim /here/. It's too boring for this field.

The horizon in front of you is a cool and royal blue. Or maybe a purple. It’s hard to tell, but you don't really feel like thinking about it. It looks just nice and relaxing the way it is. You could almost breathe it in like you would a steaming cup of tea, you’re your hands cupped tightly around it on a rainy, foggy afternoon. The moon floats lazily in the skeleton of some tree, casting its eerie and familiar yellow whisper into the chirping air. Chirping? You look around and listen. The field is full of crickets, somewhere, invisible until you close your eyes and see them, a dissolved hum of the air. You open your eyes slowly. You can still hear the crickets, while swarms of fireflies rise like the dead from a slumber. It’s like nothing you've ever seen. Each pin point of green lantern light blends with each trill echoing in your head. They become one; one thing more basic than either sight or sound alone. One mystical thing. A faint light and a faint sound together here are louder then even silence. And you aren't the only one enjoying the calm and majestic backdrop.

A few meters away a pair of suits waltzes in the moonbeam. Or is it the firefly light? The coats are tailored in that very 18th century noble and modern pianist drag cut, with the long narrow coat tails and the black silk and the white velvet trim and the pearl buttons and the ivory cuff links and the whatnot. And two black silk top hats spun with the coats above and two pairs of black silk trousers and white velvet shoes spun below. They were very pretty to watch in their waltz, you almost wanted to join them, to ask to cut in. But those two suits must have been cut together and from the same and you'd hate to interrupt them when they look to be having so much fun. Instead you just listen to the wind whistle through the empty hollows of the beautiful suits that no bodies will ever wear and waltz half as well.

Beyond them is a crumbling stone archway and a large imposing and commanding door. It looks rather silly, all by itself in this field, but not completely out of place. It felt somehow like it belonged here. It’s done in a soft pink paint that makes you think of the first moments of your first love. And it actually makes you feel warm and cozy. Almost like you've been wrapped in baby's wool - soft and soothing. The way wool would always feel if it wasn’t itchy, or if you couldn’t sense itchy. Stop that. The word itchy is ruining the cozy feeling. You need something else to do with your mind. You suddenly need to see what’s through that door. Now, you already know what’s through the door, you can see it on the other side. There’s no building or room. It’s just a door frame in the middle of a field. But you have to open it anyway. You have to look through. It’s some kind of instinct, it draws you in. You don’t even try to fight it. You walk over towards the door. As you walk, you feel each fiber of your muscles bending, extending, pushing, pulling. It’s fascinating. It’s the kind of sensation you only have once every thirty years and only by sheer accident! You revel in the feeling. It’s alien, but you want to remember it because you know it will never happen again. You look up. You’ve gone full past the door. How did that happen? You’re the same distance away as you started, but on the other side. Smooth. And the feeling’s gone. So you hasten back to the door.

The knob for the lovely door done in pink is golden and tear shaped. Your hand wraps perfectly and smoothly around it, pressing into the chilled soft gold. And what soft gold it is! It feels frozen and molten at the same time. It's got the feel of touching ice - the sudden burst of cold, and then the relaxation as it melts in your hand on a hot summer day. But also the flow of molten gold. It forms to you hand and jumps through your fingers like Play Doh. You open it sensationally, and you see exactly the other side of the field. It's not another world or some magick door. It's completely normal. Nothing special, nothing to get worked up about. It's exactly what you expected; it seems calm and peaceful. There are no tricks. Everything is... Everything is fine and beautiful just the way it is.

It's a wonderful sentiment to hold onto as you yawn, stretch, and start your day.