What it will cost you is a matter of what you put in to the decision to leave home in the first place.
Did you leave home out of fear? Fear that you’d never amount to anything there. Was it too small to contain you? Constantly running to the edges of town like a Bruce Springsteen song. Was it wanderlust? The kind of wanderlust seeing all the home towns on earth can’t cover. Continue reading The Costs of Coming Home→
Marriage is a solid reminder that you are on equal footing. Or it should be. Because you never know when the tables will be turned. Like Monday, when I had to ask my wife to run to the store and buy me some panty liners. Not a thing I have ever intended to say in my life.
2120 – Somewhere in the Pacific Northwest region of what was once the United States of America.
Only shards of history survived the cullings.
And by shards, I’m being generous.
We passed history down from one person to the next in small groups around burning wood with the flames casting shadows on our surroundings for ten thousand years.
We marked the rocks with the images in our mind drawn by flames. And pounded reeds flat and bleached them in the sun and made up words to describe the images and the actions around them in complex relationships that became written language.
And then we maximized efficiency and built printing presses to make short work of storing our history in volumes in libraries.
But war, as it does, burns away the words with fire and rhetoric.
We digitized history and made the whole thing accessible to every human being in small, hand-held computers. And we shrank it, until millions of volumes could fit onto the tip of a needle.
History compounded is a radioactive element biding its time until transmutation releases energy and blows itself into shards and larger chunks.
And so we’re left to tell our story one generation to the next, to pass along the DNA of our existence, sometimes in rich detail and sometimes in shards too small to understand why we keep repeating our mistakes.
I pieced this all together from the slivers of information I have gathered over my lifetime, which evenly spans the turn of the 22nd Century.
I inherited some of it and found most of it, extracting it willingly or unwillingly from its hosts. Oh, yes, history is a parasite. Or didn’t you know that?
History periodically blows itself up, so we must pick it up in shards or larger chunks and piece it together and determine that we will never kill each other in large numbers again for resources. But we can’t fight history’s innate need to repeat itself, and so we become willing hosts, corrupted and finally destroyed as the shards and larger chunks to be pieced together by a future generation.
In this way we have eked out our existence on this rock for this brief moment in time.
Over the last six months, I’ve become incredibly fascinated with Malheur National Wildlife Refuge, the ill-fated scene of the hostile (silly) takeover.
It was the first waterfowl sanctuary created west of the Mississippi. It was created, in the most simplified way I know how to explain this, when one William L Finley took photographs of the birds there and traveled to Washington D.C., where he showed them to Theodore Roosevelt, who said, and I’m paraphrasing, “Well, bully, let’s create a bird sanctuary for the protection of native birds.” Or something similar.
What you might not know is that there was a chicken egg shortage on the west coast in those days, and people, desperate for their eggs, as we tend to get, were raiding the nests of wild birds and wiping out native populations all over the countryside.