The proof of Innocence
What do we have in the end?
Only our minds to tell us what to make of our lives. Memories, perceptions, and judgment.
The stuff of imperfection.
The stuff of self-interest and bias. The never-ending crusade to protect purity against the onslaught of others’ perceptions and bias.
Our Innocence.
Against the transfiguration of our injustice into their “justice.”
The turning of memories upside down and inside out.
Against us, to make of our outrage a joke.
That would make of us an impossibility: the earning of love, trust, and respect.
The stuff of friendship.
And above all: the proof of Innocence.
In the darkness behind appearances
Innocence that in a world of substitutes can have but two sources. An inner moral compass. . .
And what others think.
One true, the other a substitute for truth.
One the attribute of independent judgment and self-reliance . . .
The other the mark of dependence.
Attributes that distinguish opposites: host and parasite.
What is and the free rider that isn’t. The odd couple.
Innocence that can’t cohabit with guilt where Logic and Love prevail, illuminated by the light of honesty and truth.
But can cohabit where Logic and Love don’t prevail. Where instead of light, dishonesty and untruth hide in the darkness behind appearances.
Bodies like rabbits pulled out of hats
The contradiction of Innocence going about harmfulness, the business of guilt.
Taking life opposite to its will to live, to be forever.
Bent on contradiction to the end.
Taking itself, the stuff of imperfection, with it.
The odd couple at odds, seeding its own end.
And here we stand.
Who would speak for honesty and truth in such a place.
Profiles of a fool. Everyman defined by appearances, betrayed by appearances.
The awareness of Self draped in the finery of mud, called to account for its slander --What others think.
The stage of deceit and the deceiver they put there.
The illusionist and its shit parade of harmfulness, pain, and outrage, calumny and injustice.
Bodies like rabbits pulled out of hats
Engaged in an endless cycle of provocation.
Applause for special effects
The stuff of appearances -- magic performed for the entertainment of fools in a darkened theatre.
The Cave of Plato.
The roach motel where roaches check in and never check out.
In the darkened theatre of shame and punishment, fear, and hatred.
To what end?
To set feeling against one another?
OK. To make us miserable?
That works. How about to test patience with absurdities?
Getting warmer. This is ridiculous!
Almost there.
I know! The magician behind the horror show expects applause for special effects.
Uh huh. To be taken seriously for smoke and mirrors.
God’s Son remembered not to laugh
So that’s what this nonsense is really all about?
Boo!
Riveted to our seats in hypnotic fear. How many times Boo! before we get it?
Before we get that the wizard is us.
Appreciate the joke we played on ourselves.
The illusionist and its shit parade of harmfulness, pain, and outrage, calumny and injustice.
And have a good laugh.
This is funny?
Perversity that has no real effects. When it sinks in and we get it. The Joker and its jokes. All of it ridiculous.
Even the pain? The injustice?
Especially the pain and injustice when you realize why we’re being goaded and who’s doing the goading. Ourselves. Into making fools of ourselves. Into keeping it going -- the stage show. The joke.
How?
By not laughing: “God’s Son remembered not to laugh.”
Don’t you want to be taken seriously?
That’s why I’m laughing. Seriously. When you get the joke, everything is funnier.
Then you weren’t goaded seriously.
Wanna bet? Don’t get me going!
One for the road
Show’s over!
With one grand finale of absurdity. One last spooky joke. One last laugh to bring the curtain down.
There’s more?
We don’t have to get up from our seats and leave the theatre.
We don’t?
No. It’s all taken care of. The magician was never here to begin with and neither was the theatre. The theatre leaves us.
Boo!