Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Bomb Control

Well, no, I suppose there was a reason.  What, another, yet another atrocity?  Some asshole expressing himself via  exothermic physics and the permeability of human flesh?  Happens everyday.  Am I wrong?  7 billion people, gotta expect a few hundred million, at least, to be monsters.  American victims, celebratory and reverencing human excellence.  What better place then such, for monsters to manifest.

As for which particular monster, it hardly matters.  The more specific targeting, via firearms, of little children, or the randomish selection of athletes and spectators -- we are outraged if we let it below the surface.  As we do not let such things enter us, when the victims are African or Asian or somesuch.  Thus do we stay sane, insofar as we are sane.

Didn't I already write something in these pages, called Bomb Control?  No matter.  I await Obama to call for background checks on the purchase of pressure cookers, but that's the extent of it.  Fewer things we can buy.  That's what government is for.  It is the solution.  Freedom is the problem.  Backpack control, that's the ticket.  Nylon bag control.

Yes, I too am, well, rather inhuman.  God is inhuman angels are inhuman, animals, turns out not too many things are human, relatively speaking.  Because I have been, well, not suicidal, but closer to flat than ever before, It's hard to summon up any intensity of emotion.  I'm thinking of getting life insurance.  Must provide for my foolish aged mother, in the event that something untoward should befall me.  I hold this truth to be self-evident, that nothing is promised, or secure, or sure.  You think you are safe.  I've taunted you with this delusion on previous occasions.  But there is no safe place, thing or situation.  She can stop loving you.  They can be snatched away, accident, malice, monster, you just don't know.  Go out to see a display of human fortitude, discipline and excellence, and wake up with a leg amputated.

This is why I write so rarely, here, now.  Every day is a Boston Massacre.  I don't see the point of any of it.  Now you, dear and faithful reader, need not fret over my well-being.  Duty has kept me going, and that's a promise, for sure.  So what if or that I am utterly defeated.  It is my own doing.

Pray?  I simply don't get it, now.  Jesus no longer presents his wounds, to probing fingers.  We must find God, and purpose, and meaning, in the wounds of other victims, less holy, less innocent, but still valuable and loved and capable of raising a great cry of anguish upon their violation.

All night long, last night, I thought about the song, Ding Dong the Witch is Dead.  Mark Steyn wrote about it, as the Lefties were celebrating the death of Margaret Thatcher.  Gone where the goblins go, below, below.  Brilliant.  Let us celebrate the deaths of wicked monsters.  Trap them, kill them, have moral clarity about it.  For my part, I should hope somehow to find joy not just in grim and belated justice, but in friendship and love and goodfellowship.  Except I've been mutilated in a few explosions, and am no longer recognizable as human.

Self-centered? Yes.


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