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1:53 p.m. - 2010-09-27
God vs Bobby Fischer

Eddie Rabbit might have loved a rainy night, I love a rainy autumn day. Sure, ask me again in late November when the sun has been hidden behind soggy grey clouds for a couple weeks and I might answer differently, but for today I'm happy with the rain. Too late in the season to help with anything except the latter apple harvest (extra sweetening and plumping for the latest ripening varieties), yet does everything have to have a purpose beyond its existence?

Emerson said beauty was its own excuse for being, and when it comes to art, flowers, and a welcome rainy day I agree. People, even beautiful ones, should have more going for them than just being nice to look at, in fact I think the beautiful have a moral obligation to provide more than eye candy. To balance off the ease with which they glide through life, you know?

Now that my own physical beauty is on the wane I think this to be truer than ever. If all I knew how to be was a decorative asshole then it'd be a sad state of affairs.

I've been thinking a lot about purpose lately.

A lot of folks, most of them actually, believe there is a divine being guiding the whole thing. That there's some grand mysterious plan, a holy chess game that we pawns are too small and involved with to see from our perspective down here on the board. It's a comfort to them when the mudslide, the mugger, the unfaithful mate rips their world to shreds and leaves them standing there empty and bereft. I can dig that. Don't buy into it, don't believe it myself, think it's a bunch of hooey, truth be told, but whatever gets ya through. If you want to think there's some reason your child died, your house burned down, your husband is schtupping his co-worker, that your griefs serve the greater good, the grand plan, who I am to say you're not allowed to hang onto that to get you through?

My only beef is when some people are so needy that to prop up their faith in the divine plan they insist I play along. By force if necessary. Then, my friends, we have a problem.

A supposedly merciful god who needs me to be raped in the ass at 7 years old to serve some purpose, to position the pawns into place to make the game play out to win? Well, that god is a sadistic inept jerk. A god who'd need that is a sick fuck and I want no part of that god or his grand scheme.

There's the adherents to the god thing who would claim I deserved my violation. Oh really? And what exactly was my crime except to be conceived in the backseat of a Nash Rambler on a chilly March night during the Kennedy administration? An act of hormonal urgency by two horny 18 year olds on a dark side street in Pearl River, NJ is my destiny? This is my crime? To be the result of some random gametes hooking up and for this I must be punished?

"Look!" the believers crow. "Look at how you demanded better from yourself than your weak-willed parents! Look at the care and effort you put into raising your own children!" (One the result of an exceptionally chilly February night in Texas and us with a hovel of an apartment with no heat. The other the random conception during a rum-fueled last ditch effort to save a rotten marriage during a fake-ass, way too late second honeymoon on a hotel balcony in Cancun.)

Sure, the people I helped bring into being have gotten a far better life than I had during my childhood. So what? This proves what exactly? That I am less sniveling and cowardly than my mother? Slightly less callous than the father gone walkabout? That in my own misery and suffering I learned a bit of responsibility and compassion?

And the almighty, all-seeing, omniscient GOD, creator of All Things and divine director of all happenstance and guiding hand to every single fricken thing from a flower's budding to nuclear arms treaties scratched his bearded chin and declared it must be so? Why? So he could win against some cosmic Bobby Fischer?

Give me a break. Give me a fucking break.


Shit happens. End of story. ~LA

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