Make Believe

It seems to me, from this very small, very deeply removed zygote vantage point, far, far from the land of the upright, 

that humans are expert pretenders.

It's not just the costumed Halloween party-goer, the festooned Anime character at Comic-con; no, every grown up executive, every nerdish child and butt-crack wielding plumber share a deeply guarded secret: they play a Big Game of make-believe every single day.

Some props are obvious, like pop guns in little plastic holsters. Others take a more trained eye to uncover, like vintage Porsche 356's, horn rimmed glasses, or the dangled cigarette. All are calculated to produce a mis-impression to distract from a reality in which we are all trapped, where being a mere mortal is simply unacceptable.

Better to wear a statement.

Maybe one that says SuperMan lives here, or SuperWoman will save the day.  Even the plumber with his butt crack can be proud now that everyone sports his hallmark!  Whatever the preferred disguise, each one declares loudly that our eventual destiny is imminent! We will 'ARRIVE' soon, when

WHO we REALLY ARE will manifest magically thru the daily faithful wearing of the costume.

An ego universal, a necessary lie, altogether invented yet altogether expected and accepted.

No one wants to admit how every echelon, from kings right down to the homeless, reinvent themselves. Zygote used to sport a very smart looking pair of John Denver glasses, desperately expectant that guitar playing was my birthright, and fervently hoping that no one would catch me counting on my fingers.

Enter Dylan Klebold. Enter Eric Harris.

And Joker disguised as a Dark Knight named Holmes.

When I grow up, maybe I'll get to actually save a day, sport a cape, or do calculus in my head.  And if I can manage to defy the demons who tempt me to "impress my public" with notions that I have a public, I'll have arrived at adulthood without a single visit to the costume shop.

Along the way, may God give me the time and insight to put my arm around a Dylan, Eric or James,
with simple words (but esp non-words) to convey how much He loves them.  He loves all intensely, even the dispossessed in their full humanity or inhumanity; and died to save each from demonic fakery.

Only, will somebody please put their arm around me first?



Thankyou, A. Blackerby, for use of your blog images

The Scream

AmZyg knows the trauma of Artist Angst. Her art once produced a selfportrait of anguished proportions enough for even Munch to be impressed.  [just returned from a search for same, thinking to post it here after thirty years in mothballs, but i remember now:]

...wanting to put away demons forever, I cast it out on garbage day. But the demons stayed.


.well. a few remain. anyway. [paintings? or demons?] .both.

Edvard Munch, explaining his (now $119,000,000) work, The Scream, expressed pain at his sister’s habitations in an insane asylum, and how, when passing it on the street, one could hear

“an 

infinite scream 

passing through nature.”

I know that scream. 

My sickened heart takes it in every day since we learned a hospital for people trapped in their bodies was moving into the house next door. My backyard, my livingroom, my kitchen and dining room, now resonate with God's forsaken.

Sounds of a verdict none can escape.

To Leon Black. Your collections, your remote days and sequestered nights, your $1,000 dollar fastfood breakfasts and $100,000 slow food dinners can never erase the pervasive, everywhere screaming indictment. Your fortune may guarantee freedom from proximity to my neighbors' scream,

but,

Life comes for us all.  

We both have our interest in numbing alcohol.

Escorting my in-law's dog out of my car, looked down; saw this.

.
God abides all time
.
So
.
Why are we still here
?

TOWNHALL.COM image

Being but an unborn 'gote, I hesitate to offer advice unbidden. What do I know, I'm invisible?

But I've seen my sacred zygote intentions for this day degrade to a defeated bluster in ever frightening degrees since I started this grudge-holding blog, and my newly grown up zygote zealots went off to forge wilder, drunker holidays among themselves and their ilk.  One of that offspring  (get your head around that: this zygote has children?)  delivered a redwhiteandblue pie on her way out to see her fireworks.

Comforted, I ate it all by Friday.

Like the Grinch reflecting on Christmas in WHooville, I believe Sacred Fourths do not come in packages, boxes or bow pies...

Yes, listen my AmZyg's, and you shall hear: A Proper Fourth of July comes from traipsing ever down the hall to where stands The Greatest Bookshelf on the manse, containing the Greatest Books in all the Land, 

Now,

grab you off a few choice selections, then sit you down with invested members of your tribe for a brief-yet-holy peruse...

I said "INVESTED..."  

...Chocolate works.

Now, each one will pick a title, read a line or two, or a paragraph or three.

Next, discuss. Be a Miner. Mine this pile of gold for treasures; comb this symphony of wisdom for heartstrings to tug. Passions to pander. A quote to quoth. That one from the 1840's or 50's by John Quincy Adams works pretty well. You know, the one about the U.S. Constitution being the indisoluable link in the spread of the Gospel around the world;

yes, THAT one

(esp. nice when life is lived with zygote eyes shut tight against the maddening reality that it's not 1850 anymore, child porn is legal, ADULT porn is more legal, prayer's been banished from public schools, teacher's are fired for having a Bible on their shelf, and women get tattoos more often than drunken sailors.

DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES. YOU'LL RUIN EVERYTHING).

Then you explain to the Master of Ceremonies that your guests must participate in "acts of solemn remembrance" before they get their pie. (VERY, very important detail. Bribery is KEY.)

Now, watch the music start to play. . .

Ug. I opened my eyes. Back to reality.

(Peering out the belly-button, I see leftover cheesecake everywhere... and my favourite red dishtowel, still clean because I just found it. Oh, sorrows, I forgot to get out my red HOLYday FOURTH OF JULY dishtowel?

I forgot everything. 

The books. The solemn acts. 

We didn't even watch fireworks. 

Hubbo set up his internet TV to see Capitol Fourth 

before padding off to bed [i did dishes until 2AM]. )

I have lost touch with my inner patriot; my yearned for rebel with a cause.

By next year, will The Son have healed my grudge drained soul?

...I doubt it.