I have some communist and fascist tendencies. I think food and shelter should be free-communist and air conditioning banned-fascist. If people want to pay 15 bucks for pasta and parsley and hob nob with the stars, let it be their problem. Let em pay. If they want 8 bedroom houses for two people, let em pay. If they want to create a secluded environment of cold air dissing the heat, let em pay.
As for the rest of us, we don’t need much to survive.
I don’t subscribe to the idea that all humans are created equal, preferring death as the only democracy for my morning rhetoric. There’s no equality on a baseball diamond. There’s nine different defensive positions.
It’s a specialization as old as creation or big bang or whatever origin of existence you want. Sameness ruins a defense, turns a manager into a useless stump with no tough decisions to make; no insights into the nature of a player.
Talent carries a player past the whittling point where the average little leaguer is forced to surrender. Most are not good enough and settle for something else. Maybe they harbor resentment. Maybe they don’t.
And when Joe talent reaches the next level, it’s filled with hundreds and thousands of other Joe talents, lots of politics and pressure. And so there’s more whittling and the frustrated ones bitch about favoritism and bad breaks and injuries and what ifs and whatever. Sit and spin sucker. We weren’t created equal. Maybe they harbor resentment. Maybe they don’t.
It’s cold and lonely most of the time; turns babies dependent on sucking momma into adults sucking on something else; into a gang of insecure beasts prone to fill up the existential void with jealousy, racial superiority doctrines, us versus them, or labels on makeshift identity doors. “I’m a mother or a poet, a congressman, a dentist, an artist or a fart in the wind.” Only a dog seems content just being a dog or a cat or a bird or maybe a mailman.
But even the messenger is stuck in the ocean’s middle with no buoy, no boat, no nothing; left to sink or swim among bullies, guppies, manipulation, cunning, inequality. Some harbor resentment. Some don’t.
It’s everywhere. I can pretend to be Joe anthropologist soaking up sensations inside bars, at church bingo, in a break room at work, but I’m just enduring the ensemble orchestra that I don’t feel; just lip syncing rhetoric, nervous reactions or maybe just I fail and everyone else feels the birds chirping, bus brakes squeaking, every sound as unified verse. I cling to the bitterness instead; convinced everyone wears great disguises and we have a million more miles to go.
There’s a foreman and a conveyor belt of work boots and executive offices surrounding the whorehouse of wage slavery and long before any of this science and salary and hidden camera ruled the world, there were flute players and drummers, chanters and medicine man, hunters, basket weavers, herders of sheep.
I cannot sit at a bar rail or a break room at work with any degree of sanity. There’s reality and there’s inside my mind. And the two seldom share the same space. The equation is bad chemical and I feel like pollution.
Only at a baseball game or watching one on TV is there a chance for the two to merge as one, but it’s never so simple. There are humans with 100 dollar perfume stinking up the lower grandstand and announcers saying the most mundane dribble. My mind discriminates, but I keep watching and the illusion of ensemble almost cures me of my failures for a few hours; the same ones committed by the worst and most despicable human beings who ever lived.
Maybe that’s where we are equal; in our failure to not see or hear reality. It’s just an ideal anyway. Even if we do hear, there’s bound to be doom, gloom, and destruction anyway.
But it sure looks good when the defense takes the field in the top of the first; shooting out of the dark dugout like bottle rockets from the same source.