Cock Eyed

PunchPig has me pegged as an optimist.

Untrue!

As Isaiah Berlin--the greatest mind of the 20th Century and my intellectual hero--put it, I'm a 'spirited pessimist.'

Wuzzat?

Most clouds don't have a silver lining. Ultimately it's just the hap-governed whirl of sub-atomic particles. Those things we cling to, that which enables us to get out of bed in the morning, are comforting fictions. Pretty bleak, huh?

But there's good hot tea. And buttered toast. And the feeling of sunlight warming your face on a bleak November day. And your dog wagging his tail. And the feeling of sweaty skin against your sweaty skin. And that feeling when, after patiently trying and trying, you get it right.

And we're all fucked up, fearful, insecure human beings. Poor players who will strut and fret our respective hours upon the stage and then will be heard from no more. But when we come together, and offer one another respite from the burdens we carry, it's a beautiful thing, no?

And I think that the best recipe for moving from day to day, like stepping stones across a river, is through submission. Submitting to crass causality. Submitting to the viscissitudes of fate. Submitting to the ultimate end to all of us. Submitting to seeing those we love go before us.

Not entirely in that Zen way. Because submission is most gratifying when it's submitting with love. Not an abstract, intellectual love, but a head over heels passionate, clenched teeth love.

Life is always, 'in spite of.' In spite of the weather report, I'm heading out anyway. In spite of my doubts about this guy, I'm meeting him for a beer. And, most importantly, in spite of the fact that this man will one day be taken from me, I will love him.

That's what it's all about, brothers and sisters.

Can I get an 'Amen!'?

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