An English In Kentucky


















Thursday September 27th 2012    Tim Candler

     Tirade, brigandage, tangential  and rambling.   How better to describe the hour or so spent yesterday at this table in the company of two dead Wasps, which have been at my side for some time now.  And all I'd actually wanted to do when I woke up yesterday was ask why the word 'Gnostic' has to have its capital letter, a subject upon which I regret to say I still have very a strong opinion.  Then there was yet more theft of images, reliance upon myth, all of which were compounded by a completely unnecessary, and rather dismissive mention of the protestant, Martin Luther.  A brave man, whom I rather admire, even if  I find him  little scary, and even if I blame him for unleashing the dilemma of Kapital which has so radicalized the concept of a fulfillment center.  Quite why it is the status of girls in societies and in religion puts me  into a thunder storm, I do not know.  But at least yesterday I avoided the words 'ethnic,' 'nation,' and 'sept,' which is another word for bloodline.  Probably best to blame October, then hope The Artist has twice the energy for leaf gathering.

     Yet maybe the source of my reaction can be found in a simpler time.   A way to 'pick up chicks' who'd  pay their share of beer and maybe mine too.  And its possible, I have been made brittle by the hours and hours I have spent with Charles Darwin, a less brave man, whom I greatly admire, even if his line followed the course of his own generation which saw women as belonging to a more primitive less civilized form, and upon whose behalf decisions just had to be made.  Darwin believed his own maleness put him at the head of the table, and yet at the same time he was of the opinion that "it was absurd to talk of one animal being higher than another."  It's this, I think, as much as anything else that probably sets dark clouds to rolling.  And Darwin was English, which could be why some part of me appears to have an obligation to frequently debate his assertion here on a  square yard or two of Kentucky.  A frail excuse, unless I can call it a genetic transmutation, because Darwin died a hundred and thirty odd years ago of 'angina pectoris,' after seventy three years, two months on earth,  and for almost all of those years he suffered from  "uncomfortable palpitation of the heart," which disallowed visitors, unless they were Gardeners, Beetles or Birds.  Bless him.

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