Several years ago, after learning just enough HyperText Markup Language (HTML) to write a bit of basic HTML code, I created what I call my internet “Resource Center” page, which was (and remains) my desktop starting point for opening a number of websites I tend to visit with some regularity. The page essentially comprises a bunch of links that simplify and accelerate my access to websites I find useful. For example, it includes links to domestic and foreign newspapers and other news media, radio and television stations, commercial/retail sites, social media sites, financial resources, patient medical portals, etc., etc. One of the links I used frequently led me to the CIA World Factbook, an interesting and useful source that included extensive details about virtually every country on the planet. This morning, during my routine scan of a few online news sources, I read on the NPR website that the CIA World Factbook is no more. Immediately, I returned to my “Resource Page” and clicked the link to what I had labeled CIA Country Factbook. Instead of the usual entryway to a fascinating source of encyclopedic information about the world in which we live, I found an unsatisfyingly dull and apologetic “farewell” to the publication. Neither the CIA apology nor the NPR story reporting on it explained the reason for the sudden cessation of publication three days ago, on February 4. NPR asked the CIA for a reason, but the CIA declined to comment for the record. I can think of a number of legitimate reasons the U.S. government could offer to explain the decision to suddenly and without warning eliminate such a resource; but my trust and confidence in the U.S. government has fallen to an all-time low. So, my assumptions about what actually prompted termination immediately give rise to all manner of dangerous, immoral, illegitimate, treasonous, and otherwise unacceptable excuses the agency might have been directed by a fascist administration to cease publication. My unhappiness with the decision is irrelevant, of course. I am confident my displeasure means less than nothing to a government whose competence and effectiveness has been hollowed out through the removal and replacement of so many intelligent and patriotic civil servants—who have been replaced by accomplices to the dismantling of all evidence of democracy.
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Contradictions make specious arguments against themselves. Some are half-right, others are half-wrong, and still others embody truth beneath a shroud of lies…and vice versa. But we mustn’t forget the millions of outliers, represented by mutant song lyrics that hide fragments of reality behind crusty, dusty veils of fantasy. Consider this line from Kris Kistofferson’s “The Pilgrim:” He’s a walkin’ contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction, which reveals different shreds of reality in its mutant twin: He’s a walkin’ contraceptive, partly true and part deceptive…Anyone can be someone, but anybody cannot be everybody. Except when the context is right and the perspective isn’t wrong. And the tune continues to play… Screamin’ every strong invective on his lonely way back home.
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Meditation. A placid focus on the present. A peaceful mindset, augmented by relaxation and cannabis. The comforting, soothing aroma of calming incense. All of that tranquility…SHATTERED by a sudden unprovoked attack by someone carrying an axe and a grudge meant for someone else. Rage quickly replaces composure. Lethal anger, supplemented by bullets and a knife as sharp as a scalpel, supplants contentment. How quickly a good day turns sour in the face of belligerence. Compassion loses its ability to repair cracks when fissures become fractures. Heat and hate respond, merging into a swirling inferno hot enough to melt stainless steel and turn cold hearts into ash. Misconceptions breed mistakes and mistakes beget misinterpretation and misinterpretation brings about mayhem. Love and hate, in a dangerous reciprocal relationship.
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Shelter from the storm is almost unreachable when the maelstrom is in the mind, hidden by a web of sizzling tangled nerves; jagged blue, like lightning. From behind that electrified veil come loud calls for surrender, accompanied by both impossible promises and terrifying threats. “Your choice,” the voices call, “electrocution or coma; drowning or guillotine; sleep or cremation.” The options are conditional, based on meeting incoherently vague demands spoken in dead languages.
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Seeking an anesthetic experience is a foolish endeavor, but finding one be can heart-stopping in its impact. Better to deaden the pain with sleep, alcohol, fantasy, or time.
