The Parable

17 Jan


I’ll not write what this is really about…instead it’ll be an exercise in restraint, specificity and coded themes.

…How can one mix such an oxymoronic cocktail?

I dunno.  But people seem to frequently, so lets see if I can keep up.

(And, I can.)

…I’m actually getting better at this all the time. 

The power of print is a heady beast.  Ask anyone who has it, or takes it, or prostitutes it at will.

As bloggers, we all do.  In some way. 

A point of view struck in type is just our slant on the world, coded in html text, and slapped on a server.  Used to be more of a “to-do” than that, requiring physical paper and ink…and (for a readership,) usually an editor and some kind of talent.

But not anymore. 

…Even with the editor and paper and ink, the written word often seems a dieing artform. Any idiot with a computer or cell phone can vomit words on a “page” now, with nearly limitless readership…for instance: case in point:

I have a blog.

And you are reading it.


Now, some will take what I say as fact.

Some will not.

Some will agree with what I say.

Some will claim that I am full of shit.

…But I suppose what I find most interesting about all this (in fact “interesting” is not quite the correct word, I suppose “annoyingly irritating” comes as a two-part substitution), is when words are put to politicking use, where there was absolutely no reason to, in the least.

…Like all those annoying FB updates belching extremism all over the place.  Cuz THAT is what you wanna scroll through on your finally achieved coffee break, or while slamming a sandwich at lunch.

…And add to that, the “hipster” craze of ridiculousness, and really…sometimes my stream makes me want to just close the account and walk away forever. Only I can’t. Cuz I’m a fucking human. But that doesn’t change the fact of how goddamn irritating it is, that it’s a “fad” now for people to quote principles they don’t necessarily believe in, or go against the agreed-upon plan or opinion, just because it is the different, non-mainstream thing to do.

It is fucking asinine to me. 


…You can’t like your favorite band now, because other people have actually heard of them at this point? 

…You’ll vote against that one dude just because they are the current establishment? 

…You hate that brand, movie, actor, car, restaurant…because other people actually enjoy them? 

…Because it makes you smarter than them to not have partaken of the Kool-Aid (or some shit), and everyone in power now is always wrong, and every choice was poorly made because you weren’t the one to make it, and now your frustrated little poser heart, (which unfathomably seems to get-off on taking the opposite opinion view, just because its “different”)…can secretly orgasm with delight tonight (alone, of course, because no one is good enough to actually sleep with you…and if they were, you wouldn’t want them anyway…)

…Or maybe not.

…Maybe I’m misjudging them, like they do to the us’s.

Is it “fair” that I should get to, if my gripe is all about them doing it first?

Do two wrongs make a right?

This is me: trying to understand what it really means…the frustration that I feel…why I feel it…as well as using the best of my conscious ability to see it from all (even the asinine) points of view.

Which is more than most people will give you.

…And you know what? It STILL pisses me off and is wrong.

…But that’s just my own humble opinion.

Only let me tell you this one thing. As my own little “case in point.” And then I’ll shut it down.

For now.

…A kind of parable if you will:

A woman walks into the ER, and after showing her ID, is taken into the IC ward. There is a young person laying there, face beat to shit, bones broken, bruises everywhere, blood seeping through the sutured wounds.

“That’s my son,” she says as she looks on in horror.

“Are you sure?” the Doctor says, bringing her closer to the bed. “He had no ID on him at the time of the accident…and he’s severely wounded.”

“I know my son,” the woman says, reaching her hand out to grasp the one on the hospital bed. “I’d know him anywhere. By smell, by feel, the way his eyelashes fall..that freckle by his left ear…I know the way he breathes when he sleeps, like he’s doing right now. There’s nobody can tell me different. I carried that boy inside of me for months. My whole body labored for him. I’ve nurtured him, cried with him, laughed with him…I know him better than anyone else in the world…because it was my job to. And no manner of beatings or broken bones or bruises could ever disguise what I know to be true. Nothing anybody says or does, will ever change that.”

“I’d guess you’d know best,” the Doctor then agrees, with a scribble on the chart before him. “Can’t argue with the woman who gave birth to him, now can I?”

“Well, you could, Doctor,” the woman comments from her station beside the bed, “but you’d look like a damn fool if you did.”


2 Responses to “The Parable”

  1. somewheretoelsewhere January 17, 2013 at 12:11 am #

    This was brilliant. Thank you for this.

  2. She Writes A Little January 17, 2013 at 12:15 am #

    😉 xoxoxo

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