An English In Kentucky



















April 18th 2009

    The ancestors take on magical qualities in my dreams.  I do not see them as mostly afraid.  I can hear the laugh.  I can see the smile.  To qualify them in the grand dialectic, I think of them as impertinent.  The sort that would enjoy a good quarrel before deciding upon which mammoth to beat up on.  And the kind to everyday invent new gods with their breakfast cereal.

    But established wisdom will suggest this image a false one.  That movement out of the forest was not a journey of imagination.  Rather it was a slow, multi-generational amble that would have included a genetic change.  The furry thing did not suddenly walk on two legs, discuss climate and procrastinate. 

    For certain life was cruel.  An injury would fester and painful death would ensue.  Food uncertain.  The nights dark.  All of which are the impetus behind our current circumstances.


    Yet, while I know we live longer, I "want to think" we are frail compared to the ancestors.  I "want to think" we cry more than they did.  I "want to think" they would see our idea of happiness as stifling, our concept of a good life peculiar.  And, I "want to think" that in their vocabulary they had a word for 'prisoner' that would describe our endurance perfectly.

    Granted our 'enduring', has been anointed by a long multi-generational struggle.  Granted we see it as 'progress' or 'civilization' or 'providence'.  And granted men and women and children die for it.

    However, my four "want to thinks", put me firmly in the category of "old fart".  Which is fine, but which should never be an excuse.

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