Tell me, who among the modest and the generous could ever fill our space rockets' enormous fuel tanks? Might it not rather be from professional profiteers that the huge loans for such fantastic happenings will come?
Some of us are born with shallow roots and are not meant to dig into the dirt for food. No vigorous health, no fingernails, no leathery skin, no deep fluffy lungs, no mind to kill. Instead they are made to rely on their wits and on our industries' regurgitated food.
This might be the man who specializes in terror, composing pictures that should shake and frighten me. He spreads addictions and makes them pay. He lives on strikes, on breakdowns, on the desperation of my heart. He may hook me on credit cards. He may polish his nearsightedness to a microscope so perfectly focused on our today, he simply "out observes" in details his more poetic friend whose left eye likes to wonder off to the clouds and whales, to the future and past. He may live from dubious laws, from pebbles he sneaks into my soup. This wizard may juggle my figures and zig-zags his thoughts so heavenly fast, that he leaves my pockets empty and me dumbfounded in the dark. He mumbo-jumbos my drowsy mind into some invented shame and carries a sweet, cheerful absolution in his pocket for sale. He is the father of psychology who learned from the gypsy matron the skill of how to probe for my weaknesses, my secret cracks, bents, vices and hang-ups, the holes in my integrity, my penchants and cowardice. If I let him, he discreetly fills my heart with thorns and offers to take them out again taking a chicken for pay. At night he might very dimly hold up at lawyer's point my children's piggybanks. Graciously, he dearly loans us back a bundle when the sun is up. He might do the same with a country's potato crop. He maintains himself from his cuckoo's eggs. Maybe in good housedog fashion he just gives me cheerful companionship to be fed. It is sound goodness in his moonlit mind, to have the advertising agents talk sickness, envy, fear into my mind. He might discreetly plant a hungry flea under my pants. Later he will have his salesman with the remedy drop by. He ridicules my inborn shame and soon after sells me a condom. He is the fox that charms the crow to sing and drop its prey. In our sullen routine of a working day he is the cheerleading storyteller, swinger, attention snatcher, pocketing discreetly the best morsels for pay while I gape in awe or joy. He might be just a patient friend who hears me out to earn his day. Such seem the unobstructed freeways life has allotted to his joys.
There is no doubt, this magician has also been sent to me just as another adventurer to test me, to tease out and mobilize what great spirits I have never guessed are dormant in me. Should I be mad at this fine teacher from whom there is so much to be learned?
A hardy parasite for every great provider to mop up his surplus, is that not what nature's wisdom recommends? A well-mannered profiteer for the deadly efficient fisher who buries himself in dead fish. A surf bum poet for every overachiever under whose whip the earth is grieving now. Here seems another elusive symbiosis not yet mentioned in The Wonders of Nature book.
There are many such suckling mistletoes that the great spirit wisely plans in our tree to grow. These experimenters in survival probe after every possible bug and fault in us. They drive their roots into my weak spots, into my cowardice, my thoughts that fell asleep, into my warts, fears, cracks and nooks. And they make good use of all these faults. There are those predisposed to simply become filthy rich and to be colleagues to those ants chosen to serve as huge living storage tanks for the ant people's honeydew. What clowns, what imaginative inspectors for our wits, what wonderful fundraisers for our dear and daring projects, what sharpening stones we have here!
Should the Creator have put me in charge of the project to send a species to explore space, I could think of no better suited scenario than this perverted, overpopulated, hyperrational, gadget- and grandeur-loving, adolescent-minded human society, with all its hilarious and abominable trimmings - orgasms by phone and all - which is replacing now my old idyllic home.
The more I find out about how you are made: your health, your pimples and crutches and suspenders, your memories and the holes in them, what you have been told and who are the secret crybabies in your soul, the more I find that the way you live is the best way for you to survive. I wonder whether we are not a little like the raindrops that trickle in puzzling zigzags through all kinds of winds, turbulence and clouds never quite sure they will end up by a dormant nut, in the sea, on a rock, or maybe on my cap.