Idealism is the opposite of a state of grace; it's a pit into which a thinking person is forced to descend when public policy is led by flat-Earth freebooters, often people with seemingly high IQs admired by their J-C voodoo communities who, in their pre-orgasmic glee, rush down the path to failure thinking, in the words of the song from Mack & Mabel, "Maybe this time ... I'll get lucky ... Maybe this time ... I'll win." The reluctant idealist, torn away from imaginings of future carnal bliss, is forced to be the adult in the room while still only a child. I think Dostoevsky and Salinger would have gotten along very well.
I remember Heinrich Harrer, who wrote Seven Years in Tibet. His opening sentence is, "all our dreams begin in childhood." I burst into tears. And to this day I couldn't tell you why. Except that it is true.
Once, in a poem about Vietnam I wrote when I was 18, I eulogized one of "our" (rather than Commie) peasants, "He cried at the loss of his childhood, his birth into manhood, and he took up the cold and dark torch and the banner he could not read, and now he is dead. My neighbor has lost his freedom."
So, yes, some people don't get to age-out of their dreams; they have a moment, maybe, of anguish, then lights out. No revanchment, no reflection. Is that better? I have to say Life is precious, even those years of disappointment and despair. To be snuffed out while young in service to (what?) is an obscenity. Reflection is hard won joy, a chance at redemption, to reconcile with oneself. Those ideals of childhood aren't necessarily wrong, perhaps just a different way?
Idealism is the opposite of a state of grace; it's a pit into which a thinking person is forced to descend when public policy is led by flat-Earth freebooters, often people with seemingly high IQs admired by their J-C voodoo communities who, in their pre-orgasmic glee, rush down the path to failure thinking, in the words of the song from Mack & Mabel, "Maybe this time ... I'll get lucky ... Maybe this time ... I'll win." The reluctant idealist, torn away from imaginings of future carnal bliss, is forced to be the adult in the room while still only a child. I think Dostoevsky and Salinger would have gotten along very well.
I remember Heinrich Harrer, who wrote Seven Years in Tibet. His opening sentence is, "all our dreams begin in childhood." I burst into tears. And to this day I couldn't tell you why. Except that it is true.
Once, in a poem about Vietnam I wrote when I was 18, I eulogized one of "our" (rather than Commie) peasants, "He cried at the loss of his childhood, his birth into manhood, and he took up the cold and dark torch and the banner he could not read, and now he is dead. My neighbor has lost his freedom."
So, yes, some people don't get to age-out of their dreams; they have a moment, maybe, of anguish, then lights out. No revanchment, no reflection. Is that better? I have to say Life is precious, even those years of disappointment and despair. To be snuffed out while young in service to (what?) is an obscenity. Reflection is hard won joy, a chance at redemption, to reconcile with oneself. Those ideals of childhood aren't necessarily wrong, perhaps just a different way?
War is Hell. War is a Racket.
But I digress.
Beautiful and perfect, Ba.