a Complaint... |
I have nothing to say. I think. I'm absolutely content. Nothing is upsetting me. Nothing is nagging me for a retort or driving me to burst. No rage fueled explications, no vindictive rejoinders, nothing. No loss of equilibrium disquiets my mind. My heart doesn't weigh heavily in my chest. Injustice, vanquished for the moment, doesn't trumpet for resolution. I'm not wearily putting the pieces of a shattered life together, nor plotting murder, nor defending my honor. I'm not heartstung by poverty or hunkered down weeping in the bombshelter of my soul. The agonies of love rebuked don't torture me. I'm not impelled to claw my way up castle walls in search of lowered glances from beautiful maidens.
Nothing special has happened either. Lark song doesn't resonate in Spring morning's release from Winter's frozen chamber. No opening gate of heaven has cast the light of insight on dark questions about our destiny. The girl next door hasn't smiled at me. I haven't won the high school championship and been carried forth on the shoulders of classmates after three years of humiliation by dull-witted bullies with half my brains and five times my muscle. I haven't solved world hunger or vanquished any empire builders. I haven't been cast into the outer darkness.
My step is light. I don't carry the hopes and wishes of teeming masses yearning to be free. No success of any Saturday performance rests on my hopes of performing brilliantly in spite of my doctor's warning that I will never play again.
I'm well. I don't suffer Alzheimer's disease or brain cancer. From the top of my adrenals to my lower Zambezi I'm fine. Even though my low back is a little sore, and my parts never work as well in the morning as later on in the day, I'm keen to go for a bike ride and work on my house.
The weather, conspiring elsewhere with acid sunlight and a furnace inside the planet, punishes the population for unbalancing the forces of nature with the forces of commercialism. Not here. Our sunlight and pleasant coolness enable exercise and sleep. Winter is banished. We relax in a benevolent boundry between rising vapors on the Pacific and their precipitation as ice and snow east of us. Volcanos and parching winds scour lands north and south, but not here. Earthquakes that torment others provide carousel rides for our houses.
Neighbors salute each other. Dogs rest at night. Children visit each other. They share toys. Everyone votes. The medics are idle. Paint doesn't peel. Dust decorates. Flowers flourish. Calm reigns.
In short, we must be headed for disaster. If this is not the quiet before the storm, I don't know what is. As a writer, I just know the lurking demon sulks in the dark. He's gathering his strength.
I know the threat is male because even the most able monstress has never equalled the rapaciousness of man. Queen Elizabeth the First never conducted conquest with so much as a tenth the destructive horror that King George Bush wields (although God forbid Margaret Thatcher should be let near the button again). Tony Blair, the well spoken slicko in the creaseless suit, is every bit as mean-spirited as the worst of tyrants. He just doesn't have the budget for it, like the psychotic drunk the U.S. produced as leader.
But for the moment, all's right with the world. Whatever shall I write about?
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