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Hank 2011. January 10, 2012

Posted by littlebangtheory in Love and Death, Politics and Society.
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While out “hunting” today I chanced upon Balanced Rock in Pittsfield State Forest.  It’s a large (20′) glacial erratic, a chunk of limestone perched delicately on a small point, its inverted pyramidal mass hovering incongruously above the ferns and the moss of the surrounding woodland scene.

What seemed more incongruous, though, was the surface of this once-white wonder:

I could almost see John Muir crying and Jackson Pollock furrowing his brow at the lack of intention displayed by the Blotto Spawn of Pittsfield’s Poor.

I’ve long since let go of my expectations that people will behave as though they respect the world which gives them a life filled with beauty and possibilities.  The fact is, it doesn’t.  Many of these kids watched their Dad die from the cancer he contracted building transformers for General Electric, their Mom smoke and drink herself into a crippled stupor, and both of their jobs get shipped to Malaysia when the EPA cracked down on that mess.

If I was looking forward to a lifetime of filthy streets and flipping burgers for pennies, I might be inclined to piss on the world, too.

“Hank 2011” is one of the small number of people who raised their voices to here say “I EXIST,” without stepping on the faces of those who came before him.  Perhaps Hank stands a chance of making it out of here alive.

Good luck, Hank.  I’m rooting for you.

A December Night. December 13, 2010

Posted by littlebangtheory in Love and Death.
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It’s snowing, or approximating snow as it does in these parts.  The darkness outside the kitchen window is populated by fleeting visions of white, whirling, driven, then gone like thoughts, to be replaced by others doing different dances, now fast and frantic, then slow and lazy, drifting aimlessly earthward before catching a gust and getting gone.

The wind rises, pours past like a rushing river, a torrent of souls bound for who-knows-where, each fleck and flake bursting into existence and as suddenly vanishing, taking its moment in time with it, never to return.

Out beyond the kitchen window prayer flags beat themselves to shreds, giving up ghosts of frayed filaments for the old folks with no living friends, the working Joes with no jobs, the children whose futures are as dusty and hungry and pointless as their pasts.

Inside, the quavering whistle of the singing tea-pot reels me back from the beyond, back to the now of the night, the need for another log in the wood stove, the realization of just how blessed my penny-counting life is in a world where warmth in winter is a fabled commodity.

I’m grateful for the cold, and grateful that it’s out there.