Tragedy. No prattle today. Unsettled, at ends, I can’t write.
Are we irretrievably lost? Somehow, I can’t help but wonder if this is a symptom, a connection or a less obvious manifestation.
The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother’s heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us. It may be true with music, too.
There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.
Before our children even start school, we -armed with the vicarious profligate insignificant matter that constitutes our lives- begin to kill the joy in them. And then we wonder why they kill each other. Like father, like son.
In memorial, resolve to create some beauty today. What will you do? I do not know.
photo by Henning