These others lead more exciting lives than I do. And they care about helping the downtrodden, they contribute. They give from... well, I can't say from where they give, exactly, other than their wallets or clutches, and that they volunteer their time filling sandbags, then tossing these bulwarking materials in the general direction of the surging waters. I mean compared to me, they're actually doing something.
I just talk a lot about helping.
It's debatable if how I contribute is worth anything at all, especially after what happened this past Monday.
And about these others, the ones who undoubtedly contribute higher quality and more quantity than I do, well, I'm convinced their generosity is not where it ends.
That's right, some of these others (whose hearts are less black than mine, whose hearts are closer to being in the right place than mine is) also bring home more bacon to their loved ones than I do.
Yes, believe it or not, the herb is not the highest paid cog at Acme Salt. And there are lots of managers at other factories who earn even more than our highest paid guy does. And then there's Donald Trump.
And no, I really don't know if Donald's heart is less or more black than mine is. I don't think I have the blackest heart in the world, but I also know I could contribute more.
And I want to do more. I truly want to be a helper. But I don't want my help--however well-intentioned it begins--to end up functioning like yet another chain around the ankle of just another slave. Those who are not free are enslaved enough as it is; they don't need me inadvertently--and yes, it would be inadvertently--adding to their woes.
I wanna help, but it would seem that my help is commandeered and then retooled into something not helpful toward those it was intended.
Which brings us to yesterday, New Year's Day. And what I saw. Yes, I witnessed from a distance a phenomenal achievement I was not involved in.
Just consuming culture. Not producing any. Yep, there I sat: sunning myself, watching others do the do.
I used to want to be a superhero. Then I wanted to be a hero. And then just a "he," instead of the pussycat I've become. (Please, I intend no disrespect to my female regs, or any females for that matter; the loaded term "pussycat" in this paragraph is nothing other than a riff off of a wimpy reference in last week's update... I'm wending my way around to a point here... And I'll eventually get to my point if I don't have to electrify tetra bytes of apologia along the way... Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I don't think a weak or bad man is equivalent to a woman, and I realize it's very easy to envision the above as just such an implication, however... OMG, if I could just get to my point, I swear to effing god it'll be worth it... And see? See what I'm doing? See all this unnecessary backpedaling? Little Jack Horners who obsessively pedal backwards like this end up not helping... Blacks won't let non-blacks discuss a certain word, so I won't discuss that word; on the other hand, I'm sure my women visitors will see beyond my usage of the occasional cacophonous pebble in this otherwise mellifluous mosaic.)
Or the "o." Perhaps I should back up and go with "o" instead. As in: "I used to want to be a superhero, then a hero, now I'll settle for just being an 'o.'"
But I don't want to be an "o." I don't want to be a zero.
I wanna help. But I want to help those who could use my help, not those who are doing well enough already. I suppose the most I can ask is that my help--however meager, however much of it ends up helping those for whom it wasn't intended--eventually and against all odds ends up helping those for whom it was intended: the needy. I must hope that after my help has been retooled into something neutered and toothless, that it can somehow be un-retooled or otherwise re-envisioned in its original state, so that those for whom it was intended can benefit from it in the way it was intended.
This is probably too much to ask.
Well, or if I'm to go by what one test audience reported, it's not only too much to ask, it's way too much to ask.
Moreover, at the end of their session, this particular test audience had a few questions of their own, to wit: "Who are these others whose lives are more exciting than yours?" And, "So you were sitting around on the first of the year and, um, watching others contribute more than you do, and you're a pussycat. So what's your point?"
(The above is almost word for word from one of my more sober focus group members.)
I guess my point is this: recently I viewed one of the most improbable ineffable finishes ever, and this by a group of fellers from next door. Idaho, that is. That's right: a bunch of guys who usually ply their trade on a blue surface played their way into America's heart yesterday. These Staters from Boise did to Oklahoma what the Ducks did to them earlier in the year... times ten. And after this setback I think all the Sooners can do is...
Well, I guess there's a reason why they call it ineffable. Because it's indescribable.
After witnessing such heroics, I feel small. I feel like I'm not contributing at all, let alone enough.
I feel as though I shouldn't watch another athletic contest until I do something even half as exciting as what those Broncos did yesterday.
I feel as though I must act.
But.
But it's hard to be neutral on a moving train. Say this train is moving forward at five miles an hour. I, ever the passenger, could start jogging in the locomotive, jog through the cars and toward the caboose, and at five miles per hour. If that were possible, I would be standing still.
Going somewhere, flailing perhaps, but not contributing to our demise. For a few seconds anyway.
If this train were moving at only five miles per hour.
And I really don't know that the Amish have all the answers either.
FORWARD to what happened next
BACK to an earlier derailment, one that took place in a Wal~Mart parking lot
OVER to HerbNation HOMEPAGE