Going along

Here's the next page from my book of 300 Drawing Prompts. (The last page appeared just yestermorn.) This one demonstrates why I hate drawing with a ballpoint pen — its prompt was "Stonehenge".

Dear diary,

Why does everybody want to be right about everything? It seems that, no matter who you ask, the person you’re questioning will be barely listening and very eager to convince you of their world-view. I don’t understand this. Is it possible that there exist people who are simply gentle, whose only desire is to be kind to others?

And we’ll strive to please you every day.

(As the clown always sez, in What You Will.) Just as there are people who are hell-bent on being right about everything, and also people who really like to hurt people, suppose there are also souls who just want to harmonize with all. Are you among this latter type of soul? I thot so: you seem genuinely compassionate.

But these guys who go on TV and rant and rave, waving their arms and turning red in the face (literally!) in an effort to persuade you of their view — I wonder: What’s their hangup?

Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?

(As the first line of Psalm 2 always sez.) Why does being correct about everything attract people? —This might seem like a stupid question; but, think about it for a second...

Yeah, I guess, on second thot, it is a stupid question. But isn’t it still interesting to consider why certain people will move heaven and earth to gain a convert to their cause; whereas other souls will accept whatever the pop hive-mind doles out, as cultural narrative, just to maintain decorum?

I fear that I’m somehow painting myself as among the former group, those viewpoint-peddlers, by even thusly typing my thots aloud. For if I myself didn’t care about right and wrong, then I’d just watch the tele-heathen rant, and be contented. It would be my entertainment. I’d come home from a hard day of work, fire up the e-screen, and enjoy an evening of drinking booze straight from the jug while my jesters amuse me. And my day job would be to work as a dishwasher at a restaurant.

“I will wipe Jerusalem clean as one wipes a dish and turns it upside down.” —Yahweh God (II Kings 21:13.)

Yes, the modern working stiff lives like a king in his household. The only difference between an actual king, from ancient times, and the modern working stiff, besides the timeworn rift between old and new, is that the ancient king had an actual court with real live jesters that did dances before him, and when he didn’t like a performance, he’d toss out a javelin. This act would physically slay the talent. In contrast, the modern working stiff just changes the channel that he’s watching, until he finds something better. So, if he changes the channel three times, it’s like slaying three performers. (There’s a lot of good stuff on TV.)

And it came to pass on the morrow, that the evil spirit from God infested King Saul. And David his servant danced before Saul with all his might. And Michal Saul’s daughter looked on, and saw David leaping and dancing; and she despised him in her heart. And she said to her father, “How glorious is this artisan of Israel, who uncovers himself to day in the eyes of the handmaids of his servants, as one of the vain fellows shamelessly uncovereth himself!” And there was a javelin in Saul’s hand. And when Saul heard these words of his daughter, he cast the javelin; for he said, “I will smite David even to the wall with it.” And David avoided out of his presence twice. However, luck abandoned him the third time: as it is written, “For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me. And he said unto me, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness’. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities.” So David humbled himself, and became obedient unto death, even death from a javelin.

(I Samuel 18:10-11 + II Samuel 6:14-22 + II Corinthians 12:8-9 + Philippians 2:8)

And the way that a modern working stiff changes the channel is by pressing a button on his remote control. Usually it’s the “channel yin-yang” button. Also you could get up off of the settee and walk over and turn the knob with your own bare hand (hence the byword “Don’t touch that dial! for in the day that thou touchest thereof thou shalt surely die,” Genesis 2:17). If you choose this last route, that is, the act of physical touchery, there’s no need to remove your evening glove: for fine-tuning the controls on a cathode ray tube is not like serving roasted quail to a noblewoman.

All I’m trying to say with this entry is that I side with the souls whose life-aim is to please people, rather than with those people who want to prove points. As I’ve said before, my hero is Sabbatai Zevi. He was a Sephardic ordained rabbi and a kabbalist (I’m lightly reworking an encyclopedia entry, for this paragraph), active throughout the Ottoman Empire, who claimed to be the long-awaited Messiah. (If I could convey the truth without ceasing to please my reader, instead of employing that cowardly phrase “claimed to be”, I would assert that Sabbatai was indeed the Messiah.) Anyway, in February 1666, upon arriving in Constantinople, he was arrested on the order of the grand vizier and then shuffled from prison to prison around the capital. The accusation was that he was fomenting sedition. (Are Jesus and Socrates watching this episode?) Ultimately he was given the choice of either facing death by javelin, or of converting to Islam. Sabbatai Zevi chose the latter.

The point that I’m trying to thrust into your thick skull is that it’s better to let people be: let them do their own thing. Not everybody has the exact same interests. One prophet likes to dance nude before the Lord, and one prophet likes to pray alone in the dark. Some even enjoy mountaintops. (You go up on the mountain, it’s cold up there. But nobody ever said that meditating an economic revolution into existence was going to be easy.) All this reminds me of a well-loved passage from Chapter Seventeen (“The Ramadan”) of my favorite holy scripture Moby Dick. The narrator Ishmael says:

. . . I cherish the greatest respect towards everybody’s religious obligations, never mind how comical, and could not find it in my heart to undervalue even a congregation of ants worshipping a toad-stool . . .
     I say, we good Presbyterian Christians should be charitable in these things, and not fancy ourselves so vastly superior to other mortals, pagans and what not, because of their half-crazy conceits on these subjects. They certainly entertain the most absurd notions . . . but what of that? They seem to be content, and there let them rest. All our arguing with them would not avail; let them be, I say: and heaven have mercy on us all — Presbyterians and Pagans alike — for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.

P.S.

I wrote the above during the earliest hours of morning, on the brink of springtime; so there were birds incessantly singing outside of my window, all throughout the composition. This was annoying, thus I blame any malformation of my argument on these angelic nuisances. At present, many nations are warring or preparing to war over X, Y, & Z (the same old power-struggles); but I urge us all to drop our disagreements, set aside all differences, compromise readily, and unite together as a global populace, as one unbreakable family of humankind: because our common enemies are the songbirds.