Editor’s Note: Marlow expresses the mood at the Loading Dock today in more eloquent terms. It is not just something as abstract as “truth.” It is about the torrent in which we attempt to swim in this world.

– Vic

Marlow’s Note: The time has come to cross some:

thin lines

I remember my folks when they were dying; all shrunken and grey. Neither was afraid — Dad was relieved, almost glad, while Mom was a bit sad but resigned . . . neither shook their heads when asked about their fears, so I was unafraid to touch the death I saw in them. There was no talk or thought about Church pulpit things like “goin’ back to God, life everlasting or immortality.” Don’t expect I’ll ever see immortality, so I don’t wonder how it’ll be when I die. I don’t give a fig to know this or that breath is the last one I’ll ever draw. I just hope that I can meet that moment’s thin line the same way they did. With the same . . . calm. Maybe that’s where immortality’s hidden — an unseen brief one.

That being said . . .

Why does it seem today like yesterday and the weeks, months, and the many years before that everything’s a lie? Everything we hear, everything we are shown. So much of this is always at the ready for spewing out on and over us. All their lines make us get and feel lonely especially so in the presence of other folks. We’re so lonely that looking at a once beautiful but now dying bird mostly provokes in us unanswerable pain. That our loneliness in the face of death is getting the final word, it’s laughing at us. Why can’t we see that beautiful creature’s past, present and coming glory and feel something smiling through it at us?

They’re twisting the good things out of our insides with all their faked bloody outrage, contrived filth, and incessant noise. We’d all prefer to stay not so much changeless but true to our original and good selves and our loved ones. We all long to get back to who and where we were before. How do we get to those former selves and distant shores? To those blue-green hills? They constantly try lighting raging flames in us. We are prisoners. Willingly so, at times. How can we set ourselves free?

Doing nothing, we are thus condemned and denied righteousness and its confidence. Our sufferings will not be relieved nor removed just because we loved goodness, truth, duty and honor to ideas, things and causes greater than ourselves.

No, the lies — they just keep on coming, one after another. We’re in a box. A slow-moving box. They want us near dead like, or inside their lies . . . Is there something or even one thing we can do — like finding something that’s true and truly ours, and make it an island for ourselves. If we (lost souls) ever meet one another in this life, pray that we can feel the lack; a glance from each other’s eyes, and our trust and even our precious lives will be each other’s. Together. One being. Flowing together like water.

For these media news crew jackals, theirs is an easy routine and one they know well; but to those of us out here, it is neither routine nor known. Some of us sit in our TV chairs grimacing in anticipation each morning, looking at our time pieces on the walls or on our screens, waiting impatiently like freaking lost ducks in middle of the ocean.

This lower case-e evil, where’d it come from? How’d it sneak into our world? From what seed, what root, did it grow? Who the hell’s doing this? Who’s killing us, robbing us of life’s joy and light, mocking us with the sight of some greater justice that we ought to have known? Does our ritualistic ruination benefit the mankind or our country, does it help the grass to grow, the sun to shine? Is this darkness us?

It is no accident we have succumbed this way. Their methods are possessed of utterly replicable statistical probabilities of success, by a calculated chance of searching, convincing and confirming. Arithmetical, mathematical, algebraic, geometric and statistical certitudes. Why are we so easy? Or perhaps it’s even better to ask: why are we here and why are we doing what we are doing? That way . . . maybe . . . we’d have some agency and a chance at retribution that could exact payment from them for being, well, the miserable status seeking, Caesar’s butt sniffing, property and cash grabbing pricks they are.

I’ve plum run out of thin lines to cross for today. More as they appear along the shellshocked, walking wounded boundary between sanity and madness.

Copyright 2021 My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com