Reading Chesterton one gets the early drift of uneasiness, the stiffness in the back muscles of modern thought. Something wicked this way comes, lurching toward Jerusalem, Damascus, New York and G-y Paree.
It has been long, long, long on the way. Hidden here in the shallow South the panic dashes right by the nose of my rabbit hole. Entertainment media plasters over the fear and blitzing editors jerk the scene to and fro with a promise of novelty unrequited.
The men and many women display lethality in an act of hostile posturing, perhaps to ward a family member, a neighbor. Totems of regional might, Panthers, Blazers, Mighty Ducks, act as surrogates to belonging. In the know, with a new ride, the news of the game, the newest fashion, it is an unquest. Rather flight.
For all the violet display there is amazingly little violence. It should be all out war. For all the bare skin there is amazingly little sex. Free for all sex should be the riposte to killing.
Perhaps it is the globular, the bloated, the indulgence of whim after desperate whim. Sex and drugs and rock and roll is all my brain and body needs. Get rich, get laid, get high.
Creativity is there, but drowned by the madness, to no effect.
But, really, this is what I have done since my youth…