The security guard stepped out of the bakery, his wrinkled navy blue uniform baggy around his tightly cinched belt. He wore comfortable shoes with thick white socks. He walks a lot during the day, so comfort remains high on his priorities. He had gone into the bakery to get a cafecito, a small coffee in a tiny white styrofoam cup. Soon he would return to patrolling the tiny strip mall.
On his way through the swinging glass door, he jostled the full little cup and spilled hot coffee on his fingers. Our man held on though, held on for dear life. I could see the pain in his face, but he wasn't going to give up that coffee.
Damn - now he had hot sticky coffee all over his hand. No napkin - he checked his pants - clean. He sighed mild relief, the uniform would go for one more day without washing. He exchanged the cup to his left hand and shook off the drops, and turned looking for something upon which to wipe his little fingers. He reached out to a bright yellow metal pole, a parking barrier, its top peeling paint and, after a quick glace around to see if anyone was looking, wiped his hand upon its top, down the side, and gave it a slap.
He brought the cup to his lips and gingerly took a sip.
I was watching four third-party candidates debate last night on CSPAN. Present were the presidential candidates of the Constitutional, Green, Socialist, and Libertarian Parties.
There were many crackpot left/right answers given on a variety of subjects, the Greens and Socialists WAY left of Kerry, and the Constitutional and Libertarian parties being WAY right of Bush. It was a spirited debate with some interesting points, but when the topic of the Patriot Act came up, I really took note.
All four right/left wing wackos agreed 100% that the Patriot Act was a violation of civil/individual rights and the Constitution. That's got make you sit up and take notice. When the far left and the far right agree so completely on something, it's got to make you think twice about where the country's headed under Bush and Co.
There it was. He had rousted the great beast, disturbed its slumber. He wasn't sure if he had meant to or not. Foolish pride? It glared at him with its steaming fiery eyes, sizing him up. Its tail twitched in the dim light. He stood frozen for what seemed an hour, wondering if this would be the end, if his luck had finally run out. Would this creature devour him here.
The beast snorted.
That was all.
He had elicited a snort.
He exhaled, relieved but a bit taken aback, dare he say disappointed; disappointed not to be dead? He stood for a moment shaking from the adrenaline and tension. "Beast, I will make a meal for you yet, " he muttered as he stomped off.
"What was that? D'you say something?"
Billy, glanced back at the news editor, "Hrmph... nothing."
He knew the story wasn't worth two
bits, small time political scandal, one where the poor slob
bureaucrat got a luxury car, a few bucks or other such
nonsense. Small time stuff. Everybody was scraping by. It's just
one tiny little stupid little story awash in a sea of similar tiring
uninteresting shit. He was boring himself thinking about it. Why
the hell had he written the piece in the first place? He fancied
himself an investigative journalist. Journalist, now there's a funny
word, conjures up a mythical mission to expose the underbelly of the
beast, be the final check and balance to any system of government.
Billy smiled. He felt better again. Gotta pump myself up, he
thought, as he left the office.
"In a slump, Billy?" a woman asked.
"Yeah... no. Well sorta. Too many stinking rats around this place. Nobody cares about the damn things. Oh sure they complain about them, but who's gonna go clean 'em out?"
"You lost me." She pushed her glasses against her brow, "Are you trying to get the city exterminators on your bad side now?"
"Ho ho, you're a damn fine comedienne now aren't you," he chuckled. "No, it's just that if I could take all the rats and cram 'em together into one big unholy monster, I might have a story, that's all."
They have always existed, severe melancholics, those for whom perfection is an attainable goal. The monks lock themselves away with their craft to the exclusion of what we would call normal. Are these noble endeavors, to cloister oneself far away from the distractions of human life? They chose a lifetime of solitude, silence, rigorous study, self denial, not for ignorant religious reasons, but for the sake of their craft. These were the ones who preserved history, recorded deeds, transcribed knowledge and kept it safe for posterity. They wrote great works of philosophy, theology, and science. They were the maladjusted geeks of their generation, so they hid themselves away from the frat boys.
Still, I can't help but feel a sort of pity for those so ill equipped to deal with the stupidity and chaos of human existence that they must flee from it. I cannot help but feel like they've missed out on something, they who lock themselves away from humanity in search of order, perfections, the divine.
I get the same feeling reading Slashdot, and I've come to realize that programmers are our modern monks, quasi agoraphobic masters of their craft, who wish strike out all discord in the universe, make it perfect.
More specifically, these Slashdotters generally cannot tolerate children, are set on never having any and express disdain for those ignorant souls in the majority, the stupid politicians, the idiot masses, the uneducated fools that hurt the environment, muck up the order, impinge on our monks' solitude. The disdain is expressed in a variety of manners, from a quick sharp word to the author of a factually incorrect statement, to the merciless flagellation of abusers of grammar or spelling. Slashdotters revile rules imposed upon themselves, limitations that rob from them the tools used to create order. Witness the rebellion in both Europe and the US over software patents. Programmers regard source code as speech, and to patent it, to limit it, is tantamount to a civil rights violation. Slashdotters hate spammers as well, these idiot purveyors of Viagra, cheap real estate, and get rich schemes withhold from our programmers free and open communication with their fellows. It is as if all across the silent monastery rang the din of Brittney Spears 24/7.
Happiness is irrelevant. There is only truth. There is only perfection, and to the monk, perfection is attainable, if only he could concentrate on it a bit harder, for a bit longer, with the right tools, away... from... it... all.
I have come to realize that my pity is misplaced, for the monks of our generation, as in generations past, are who they are and are compelled to embark upon their quest to attain the unattainable. They are the dreamers, the philosophers, the unreasonable forces in the universe that create, if not perfection, at least a detailed map of what it might look like. And that is a start, for without a map, how may we know where to go, what to do with ourselves?
I opened the freezer and my heart leapt for joy. There they were, chocolate chip cookies with their delicious golden brown tops and their moist frozen goodness. In a moment though, my hopes were dashed as I realized they were burned on the bottom. Why? Why, I beseech thee, why do you taunt me? WHY!?
“Hon, I'm gonna throw these cookies out. Every time I open the freezer, I see them and I feel a joy so profound that I believe I may collapse to my knees in a quivering mass. Yet only a millisecond later I must bear the pathos of tragedy. I can't take it I tell you. I can't take it. I have enough drama in my life without having to endure this, these mocking cookies, with their lying tops and their false hopes. Hey, that's like a metaphor, you know, like life. All of the universe and the struggle of human existence contained in an infinitesimal period of frozen time. Hey that's very literary, isn't it? Hon? Isn't it?”
“Yes dear, go ahead and throw them out.”