Apothegms for June, Part 2

Considering the enormity of evil in the world, two things are clear: it is a wonder we can get from one end of the day to the next intact, or at least most of us, the state of our minds notwithstanding; the other is less awe-inspiring, the expenditure of denial and illusion may help us understand the endurance of civilization in spite of it all.

There is no pleasure in flushing spiders, cockroaches and other bugs down the plughole.  It is a necessity, like pretending to like other people’s pets and children. 

Children gather round and poke it with sticks.  Tourists take photographs and point at such a wonder.  We feel pity for the sick little hedgehog creeping across the open field in the park.  But not too much, as it is a carrier of disease. 

Deep in the loins a shuddering of life, like a river of ice with the first crunch of spring break; not students on their annual fall into sexual depravity but ancient forces long hidden in the darkness of what seemed a never-ending global winter.  All through the night, the heavy sounds of returning movement, and then at dawn, through the rose glow, the appearance of  huge formations of awakening power, until finally near evening another shudder and explosion. This second darkness is unbearable and crude but necessary.

We are so used to the sound of terrorist attacks that we hardly notice the shrieks of those who excuse such action. 

In the days when I could travel, I searched for the elusive pizza my youth, the taste that existed before there were commercial preparations and you had to go into the baker late in the afternoon when he made this wonderful bread with the day’s left—over dough.  From country to country I have hunted such an authentic pizza.  Several times, the product was good, tasty, and even pleasing to the eye, but it was not the real thing.  Only in my sleep, suddenly, the odour wafts into my dreams, more powerful than a tisane with madeleine to awaken archaic memories.  Perhaps today it exists only in heaven.

Now that the winter rains have come, old jokes return to haunt me.  Someone, for instance, complained about the ugly weather.  I replied, “I hope it all keeps up.” The other person looked startled.  “Well, of course,” I said, “if it keeps up, it doesn’t fall.”  He laughed nervously.  I learned that joke in 1944, my first year in kindergarten. 

The sparrows are impatient if the bread is not thrown out at them just at dawn.  They hop indignantly up to the kitchen door to express their feelings.  When I throw out their breakfast and toss the morsels at the other side of the plum tree, they take a while to realize the change.  Some of them—like some people we know—persist in searching on the side where the food is usually scattered.  Others watch my motions and go where the bread falls.  I know who they are like.