contrasts anno_salutis On a porch with a friend, discussing property ownership and retirement, because what else is left to discuss? The argument for conformity from weariness. Nobody cares about transitional generations, least of all themselves. The sky is suddenly brightened by surprise fireworks at night, when quiet was expected, and darkness. The sudden illumination of everything and then its retreat, creates a jarring effect, life spans flash and boom. In every house and every office in every door we pass there’s a person who could have been an inquisitor, a baker, a war criminal, he of the baleful eye, or an accountant named Stu though he changed his name upon attaining adulthood because it didn't suit him), given the right circumstance. How can one live with history when the same sad glory of bone and flesh is behind every door. How, when the possibility that it's your turn to be the serial killer held up as horror itself is ever past and present? Upon sharing this amateurish complaint with a friend, he states, "but we aren’t all doing those things anymore, we aren't inquisitors, we aren’t burning strong women as witches, no, no, we’re blogging about intersectionality. Who cares that we could be doing truly awful things, because we aren’t. We can strive for better, because we’re now better." Maybe he's right as the firework reports. But how can we know what is better when we’re in the midst of it. What will they think of us, we who leave this battered earth? All we have are these bodies. The same as those who went before us. And different stories. Stories we’re told are true. And believe to be true. The dream of property ownership. Another firework, distant music. We mustn’t trouble ourselves. 141121 what's it to you? who go blather from