(title borrowed from The American Night by Jim Morrison)
The fables of our youth are Ninja Turtles and Care Bears. They are Rainbow Bright and Fragglerock. The great puppet master was literally Jim Henson and figuratively the old and evil. The moral teachings of Aesop were schooled by our grandparent's that they might mold the ideals of a generation. And as that generation grew older and became the Chieftains of the Tribes of Corporate America, their skewed visions of life -- what is and what should be -- spawned a new wave of self-righteous education. The mind-numbing experience of prime-time news and saturday morning cartoons became the chalkboards with which they taught their pupils who lay idly supine in the cold-comfort of their living rooms -- content to learn life's truths through a stretched, flipped, and distorted image exuded from a tube.
The villian always escapes. The hero is worshipped for his failure. The evil the community so desperately attempts to fight, capture, and destroy maintains a two step lead over that individual whom the weak and feeble have deemed powerful enough to stand in his way. Do the People truly put their faith in him? Or, do they simply content themselves in knowing that someone else faces the battles they themselves will not due to their inherent sloth and greed for comfort and routine?
Herein lies the irony: the Chiefs of the Tribes of Corporate America have formed a treaty with the Chiefs of the Tribes of Democracy. In any treaty, their is compromise. While we sacrifice that inalienable stuff promised us by Smith, Jefferson, and Washington -- the deceased, white-wigged Chiefs of the Free-Masons -- they sacrifice so much more, their good name. Speak to me of compromise.
The Chief addresses the tribe surrounded by his chosen counsel while the Shaman interprets his words through vision and dance. The people gather and instead of hearing the words of their leader they are hypnotized by the Witch-Doctor whose song is his medicine and whose dance is his syringe. The hyperbolic rhetoric is accented with flashes of color blinding the ears to the vague promises of protection against a nameless, faceless villian. Each time the Warriors' of the Chief, the Elite Soldiers, the Praetorian Gaurds of Freedom and Democracy near their prey, close in on the evil they have pursued, he slips between the cracks like sand between the crevices of the hand. Yet, we still worship. We still adore. We still prostrate ourselves before our great hero and interpret his words for ourselves instead of demanding clear meaning an understanding. Those whose interpretations juxtapose our own are chastised, ridiculed, punished, shunned as hypocrites and heretics.
To be continued...
So the episode always ends. Perpetuating the pattern that has evolved into routine and which will become Truth. We are left on the sidewalk gaping slack-jawed and dumb-struck at a great parade thrown in honor of a lying failure of a man we call a hero whose promise lacked definition so that its fulfillment might come with ease. For to promise the specific requires accountability and responsibility. And a noble tribe despises an ignoble chieftain, and no treatise matters when the Passions of the People Call for an Uprise.
"look where we worship"--Jim Morrison
Read: "Rise up and be born again with me, my brother" by Pablo Neruda