Saturday, May 27, 2017

I'm No Fiddler!

       I've heard that Nero played his fiddle while Rome burned.  Guess he demonstrated his lack of the ability to multitask when matters of import were occurring on the world stage.  Well, far be it from me to criticize.  Obviously, I can't UNItask (continue on an awkwardly begun, well-intentioned writing catchup even.). ADHD does that to one.
       But today, in that I actually completed what was to be a written communique, in person, in real time, I turn my attention - such as it is - to current international events.  To wit, (whom I hardly know), on the increasingly, potent, frequent and ugly extremist attacks on innocent, unsuspecting, helpless victims on this same 'Nero' world stage.
       I heard an angry, determined law enforcer commenting on the abattoir recently created in Manchester, UK.  He said, "They have a moral elevator that has no bottom floor."  I am moved to respond:
THE PLANETARY GRAVE DANCE
(To be performed atop the fetid, sunk remains of the losers during their impudent 'victory' gavotte)

   We must leap onto the 'retribution/redemption' escalator set to propel the globe's 'people-mover' to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, leaving an endless 'magic carpet', piled with the packed carcass bits of gratefully dead and condemned, having been ferociously slain while quaking in fearful anticipation, their very beings infused with the approaching symphonic song of annihilation that would be followed by the blissful and cherubic cheers drowning out their eternal sounds of silence. 
       The Roman poet  Horace wrote, "Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero." His admonition has been translated, "Seize the day, trust as little as possible in tomorrow.". Horace, obviously a man of action, wasn't allowing any moss to gather under his 'stones'.  That's how he rolled.  As to his decision, it seems a prudent course.  Indeed, the  more likely and proximate harm becomes, the more passionately we may wish to adopt his lexicon.  You can certainly count me in.  I'm no fiddler!
Later, Lorane. . . . .  

 




    

      
      
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