The rumour mill

The rumour mill

"Fellow Bedlamites . . . ."

 “Fellow Bedlamites, . . . .”     

We had a speaker last night – from another ward. I decided to listen because the blurb about him in the Loony Times cited the old French proverb that guides me when I let it.

            Praise the God of all, drink the wine, and let the world be the world.

He acted like he knew what he was talking about – he was the speaker, after all. But did he? Here’s what he said, more or less.

What I’m about to say doesn’t need to make sense, for nothing really makes sense, does it? We can impose sense on the world around us, but chaos continues if not to reign to pick at the edges until they become increasingly ragged; soon the middle will become unraveled.

     We can acknowledge or ignore that.

When is a glass of wine not a glass of wine?*

So, which is more open to recognizing – and acknowledging (not ignoring) – the disorder around us, science or religion? The answer is . . . poetry.

     Science concedes there are things we do not know – yet! Disorder is actually only apparent; eventually we shall discover the order that underlies it, all the way to the edges.

     Religion loves the edges and mystery, as long as it is the one that defines it – and solves it: “God is the answer.”

Poetry, on the other hand, simply describes. Any explanation it offers is tentative – and ultimately dismissed. “Here is a way to understand this,” it says, “not that it really works. Consider it for the moment, just until I tumble onto another possibility.” And another and another.

     Only poetry lets the world be the world, because only poetry drinks the wine. Science must analyze its composition; religion must transubstantiate it.

At that, one of the orderlies held up a sign, “Applause!” So we did. Then, it was time for a story and bed. My story was “The Frog Prince.”

12.22.16

_______________ 

 * When it’s a beaker or chalice.

All will wear pajamas . . .

Lunch is at

The American Crifis

 The American Crifis    

Or Tom Paine and the way he wrote her:

Another bit of foolishness brought to you on 490 AM.

12.18.16

Commitment, or how we got to this point.

 Commitment 

Or, how we got to this place.

Let's say I work in H.R. in one of those “small but vibrant” companies, where everyone knows everyone else, and this happened several weeks ago.

     I come into my office to complain to myself about me. Naturally, I TRY to deflect the complaints, “Yes. Yes. I know. But you know that underneath he’s not a bad guy.” I’m not convinced: “Yeah, I don’t know. Way underneath he’s, you know . . .” I circle my ear with my forefinger.  

     Ultimately I convince myself that my assurances about me are sounding pretty hollow. Officially, I can’t admit as much, but I promise to take my complaints seriously.

     And the next day I call me in. On the one hand, I’m taken completely by surprise; but on the other, I can’t disagree.

12.16.16

Mad House

 
 Mad House 

Everyone on the Psych Ward is sick – and on the day I (finally) get my computer privileges. This includes staff, so I only get ten minutes.

Barely long enough to find out what day it is. Only 18 crazy days till Christmas.

12.15.16