It’s all your Fault

[thoughts from   ~burning woman~   ]

The other day, in an unguarded moment of, what, nostalgia? Remorsefulness? Painful introspection, well whatever, I wrote that thing I called ‘Throwing away the key’ and got some interesting replies. I gave myself some interesting replies also, churning up some pretty nasty internal monologue.

The long and short of it, it’s now churning me. Oh yes, there was something driving my thoughts that day and it has intensified. I don’t know where this is going but I’m sure I’ll find out.

Life on earth is interesting to say the least. It’s kind of black and white though we like to throw in a lot of colours to hide the plain truth and we like to pretend the colours are real. They’re not.

Duality: It’s all your fault, the other side, it’s all my fault. There is nothing in between, either or, that’s it. We don’t like that so we say, as if saying it really meant anything, well, it’s not all her fault, it’s not all your fault, not all yours, not all mine. It’s always a bit of both. Then we write up reams of laws and hire thousands of highly paid interpreters to determine the degree of fault to saddle both with. The system gains. Instead of one guilty party, you have two, and both get to pay, forever. A Crayola System, in a nutshell, that’s what living in society is.

Life on earth. For the average Joe or Josephine, it’s never black or white, it’s the coat of many shades of grey. Nothing’s really evil; nothing’s really good. We make sandwiches without the slices of bread and see nothing amiss with that when we open the plastic wrap to pick at bits and pieces of meat and cheese, lick the mayo and mustard from the wrap and finally grab the pickles off the tray and eat them. What a delightful sandwich, we say and of course everyone agrees, it was a delightful sandwich.

Then comes the innocent, the fool, the philosopher who sits beside you on that spinning plastic stool and says, that wasn’t a sandwich, that was a mess of edibles, perhaps, more like a dog’s breakfast. Oh, how dare you, or, Oh well she’s just a kid what does she know, or He’s the village idiot, don’t listen to him.

You ordered a sandwich, the system gave you a sandwich and that’s the end of the story: it was a sandwich. When the system gives it to you, it’s always what you meant to have. Always. If you said otherwise, you can’t begin to imagine what the system has in store for those who insist it wasn’t a sandwich.

Anyway, what difference does it make? It does, says the philosopher, the baker didn’t sell any sandwich bread and he went broke. His family is now on the streets, homeless and starving. And did you notice that the mess you call a sandwich did not cost you any less without the bread?

Well probably the other ingredients cost more so who can blame them for not lowering the price? If that baker had any gumption he’d have found another job to provide for his family. Those people are just lazy. What people, you ask? You know those immigrants, those, those, you know, those not like us.

Which brings in love, and hate. Well, we don’t want total love, that would throw a lot of things in complete turmoil. We don’t want total hate, that would make us look bad, so we bring in the Crayola box again and we start colouring between love and hate.

We have an official black people day, or week or we may stretch it to a month. See? We’re not racists. We don’t line up at some church to shoot the same-sex couple that just got married. See? We’re not all that homophobic. We just won’t serve them any sandwiches, but that’s understandable, we have rights.

We bring in famous entertainers to raise money for some flood victims because their plight was in the news, plus it’s a marvellous opportunity to promote our group and raise even more money.

There are gala dinners and lavish entertainment and when the bills and our financial expectations are covered, we gather to two percent remaining, and put the amount on a billboard size cheque for the photo shoot and the TV interview and we bring the happy, smiley CEO of the charity corporation that will distribute two percent of the cheque’s value to the village mayor who will pass on two percent of the receipts to his friend at the lumber yard and a pick-up truck half full of two by fours and six sheets of plywood will drive off to the construction site where a half dozen volunteers from the local church are building a Christian school. See? We are charitable.

So, let’s stay with the greys, they’re so much easier on the eyes. And for those of you naysayers who gripe about the way we do things, this is earth and if you don’t like it, you know the slogan, “Love it or leave it.” What’s to not understand?

 

12 thoughts on “It’s all your Fault

  1. kertsen

    Not all philosophers are innocent fools some are downright dangerous especially those who try to convince you of something that they think is important.
    ‘ The Chief Defect of Henry King
    Was chewing little bits of String.
    At last he swallowed some which tied
    Itself in ugly Knots inside.

    Physicians of the Utmost fame
    We called at once ; but when they came
    They answered as they took their Fees,
    There is no cure for this Disease.

    Henry will very soon be dead.
    His Parents stood about his bed
    Lamenting his Untimely death,
    When Henry with his Latest Breath,

    Cried , oh my friends be warned by me ,
    The breakfast , dinner, lunch and tea
    Are all the Human Frame requires—-
    With that , the wretched Child expires.

    Reply
    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      Thanks for your comment Kertsen. I must apologize for not making my writing clearer. When I wrote, “Then comes the innocent, the fool, the philosopher who sits beside you” I was envisioning three separate people, not one. An innocent, a fool, AND a philosopher. Sorry about that.
      I don’t follow the king Henry poem and its relevance to this. Feel free to explain, or not… 🙂

      Reply
      1. kertsen

        I’m glad I misread your comment . Let me quote you ‘It’s nature is to remain ever open to interpretation and none is ever wrong ‘ it’s your opinion of poetry . The poem shows that even a most important man like a King can bring about his own downfall and death by a foolish action. Even his power and wealth won’t save him and in the end repentance is only valuable as a warning to others not to follow in his foot steps. I expect you have read the deathbed statement of Steve Jobs, it rings bells with this serious nonsense poem.
        Hilaire Belloc was a staunch Catholic and a very moral man with an encouragable sense of humour and of course this was well before the National Health Service.

  2. Phil Huston

    “And did you notice that the mess you call a sandwich did not cost you any less without the bread?” That should be a proverb on its own.
    Like how the price of everything went up with $4+ gas and when gas dropped to $2.19 the prices stayed up? Not making enough money? Blame someone, raise your prices. The Thai place I like went up 30% overnight. I asked the guy why. “Daughter’s in college. I’ve been a nice guy long enough, i need more money.” Okay…the old process of buying market share. The first one is always free…

    Reply
    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      Like what they call ‘bait and switch’ or something? No, that’s the electoral process. Lie and steal? Yes that pretty much covers it.

      Reply
  3. rawgod

    Quite the poem, kertsen, and probably quite profound, but I’m not quite sure how it responds to S’T’s quandary.
    S’T, what is it you are really asking? What I think I am hearing is a coming decision between life on earth, or life beyond earth. Openly, are you considering suicide? I am not sure, but I want to be sure what I think I am hearing. If such is not the case, no problem, just let me know. And if such is the case, I am not here to judge, but rather to listen, if you want to use me. I feel you probably have a lot to hear yourself say.

    Reply
    1. Sha'Tara Post author

      My dear rawgod, I was just waxing poetic there, using an extended metaphor to express some “ineffable???” feelings that were tearing at the heart. I hate that. I hate that they can do that as if they had some right to me. But then I realize I’m allowing them, that’s why. Let’s see, whom can I blame? 🙂

      Well, it’s the middle of winter and we haven’t seen the sun, it seems, for months here, just rain and darkness and more rain and more darkness.

      Or, I’m writing this novel, see, and I’m getting my own feeling twisted up with those of one of my characters – that’s a good one!

      Or… I’m surrounded by people who are broke, who are hurting, who are sick, who need help way beyond what I can provide and I feel utterly overwhelmed and helpless. Now that’s getting closer to the truth. So metaphorically speaking, I’m looking at a way out. I’m no longer allowed (long story) to attempt suicide. That’s the deal and deal with it, so I’m told. And the deal is, I have a ticket to some really great, shall we say, place of higher learning but I have to die a “normal” death to keep that ticket and that ticket is all I have of any value in my life.

      So yes, there are times when I get that urge to take the short cut except that I can’t. So I have to battle those feelings and get myself to the place where I stop running in my mind and function as a compassionate person again.

      So, bottom line, consider that “Throw Away the Key” as a purely, “Oh, feel sorry for me!” post. Maudlin.
      Kind of a Hank Williams song, like this one:
      There’s a tear in my beer
      ‘Cause I’m cryin for you, dear
      You are on my lonely mind
      Into these last nine beers
      I have shed a million tears

      Reply
      1. rawgod

        No problem, S’T. I don’t have a pact with anyone except myself. Life is too precious to take even a moment away. As for the Sunlight Affective Disorder (SAD), I too am suffering badly from it, but I do find the snow less offensive than the rain. I cannot remember at this moment where you said you grew up, but I was a prairie bison, and when I emigrated to the coast the ever-present rain tore at my heart like a continuous series of waves on a limestone cliff, eroding my mood and my zest for life. Finally I had to leave for my own sanity. I ended up on the east coast, where I saw actual 20 or 30 foot waves batter the igneous rock or and ovrr, and from that I learned how to weather any storm. The sun was actually out here today, and it was a great sight to see. But one day does not a HAPPY person make.Here’s hoping that the approach of an early spring in the Fraser Valley will soon change your being. I will have to wait till at least April, lol…
        And HAPPY does NOT mean Having A Piss Poor Year! (Which is the only thing I can come up with on a moment’s notice for the acronym HAPPY!)
        Peace be with you, S’T.

      2. rawgod

        The best help you can give anyone, listen to their stories with compassion, and without judgment. That, as the commercial says, is priceless.
        And as an “unpublished”author, I say, get as involved as you can in your characters. Let them work out things on paper that you may not be able to work on in your own mind. You, the author, are omniscient, and you can then find ways out of various predicaments by putting your characters into those predicaments. After all, are you writing for a “non-present” reader, or for yourself?
        But THAT is just my take on writing…

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