Cleats of the Counter Revolution

An old man in ragged clothes pushed a cart the short distance towards him. In the fading light he could tell that the man was care worn and aged by the passing seasons which likely saw him stretched out more than once on the very bench which Joe was now keeping warm for him. This survivor of the Great Depression had no other need for the collection of Hoover-blankets which littered the park save to trade for the pennies he collected in compensation for his troubles. "Are you going to read that?" he asked pointing to the newspaper beside the troubled athlete and gifted scholar. "No," Joe answered, "go ahead." "Thanks," the bum replied taking up the litter and stuffing it into his cart. This same scene could sensibly be repeated on a daily basis, or as often as the papers come to print. The old discarded and used is abandoned then taken up by those who can profit from it by returning it to its source, to be mashed up once more making it ready to be stretched, flattened, and dried before it can be printed on again. The old news is washed and remade then repeated once anew and though there may be more dams spanning greater rivers in yet more impressive fashion to produce more formidable generators, generation after generation will always see war as the prime cause for more print. Reports of battle, combat and carnage clamorously bruited in the largest fonts of all languages drown out reports of achievements in the arts and sciences. The day after the papers press "The King is Dead" will follow another that shall read, "Long Live the King." A tree grown and cut then turned to paste and spit upon by inkers and publicists withers a slow seasonal death on a quiet park bench to be taken up and reborn the following day with yet another story, another crime, another death. But what of his brother? It was late evening now and he strained to read the sign across the street that summoned the few who are proud to join and serve but the setting sun's glare blinded him, preventing him from seeing what he knew was there. "We seek nothing for ourselves," were the words that followed the printed quote. The very theme which had so moved him. To go and provide security in a troubled region, that was the dream that had escalated into a nightmare so many wished to forget and awaken from. And Vietnam was its name. Surely the nobler cause must be defended but who is to pay the price. The old man bent over a litter basket, a block further along his route, struggling to rescue one more abandoned bit of hope from its depth. He'll earn a fraction of a cent for the effort that threatens to turn his spine against him and when he reaches his home, hollow or whatever abode he calls shelter for the night the sun will have set on him as it does on everyone else. Another age, another season. And in the morning he may rise again as he did the day before, and venture out on another day to gather more in the same futile attempt to stave off the final setting which will eventually bring him peace from the worries of an existence exiled to live among those who have forgotten him. We make our way as we shape our world and when dusk falls over into night the lights we've created to fend off the darkness that surrounds us stifle out the stars above. A moonlit night may frighten an armed hunter if when he hears the howl of a distant creature he is without the protection of a warm fire, and a man stricken from the embers of knowledge which the printed word conveys is as defenseless as if he were such a hunter left alone in the midst of creatures he cannot understand. The confusion which differing factions bring to an already complicated world make weighing right from wrong as difficult as seeing truth from lie, forcing one to become a soothsayer for himself lest he is led to believe those who shout the loudest, with the darkest print, conjuring the greatest fears to prod him from his idleness and leisure into action and quarrel, for right or for wrong, with a neighbor distant or near.