WANDERLAUGH, MY WANDERLAUGH
A starving man looks for a piano. A loving woman reads a book. A lonely, thoughtful, child finds a place. An idea sneaks into a painting for safety. A cold wind warms a wandering mind. Depth of mind searches for depth of soul. A song travels through history, un-aged. Somewhere in every musical instrument is a meaningful God. In the storms of the languages is something called Love. In the unspeakable fury of life is the incredible strength of Truth.
No tear ever says enough. Death never kills anything. The passage of time is just a version of what can be. It’s never the whole story. Without light, darkness is meaningless, a mere absence. With light, darkness adds to it. Life never confines itself. Ideas breed thoughts like bacteria, and thoughts breed ideas like elephants.
What is the scale of being? How big is reality? Why is a beautiful woman blinding? What does it mean, that emotions can be more real than solid objects? What does a child mean? Who’s braver, the artist or the art? Why is playing music so much like flying?
Laughter destroys the most pretentious of fools. Laughter creates life. To laugh is to live. Love and laughter are inseparable. Truth and laughter are good friends. No theory is immune to either. No misery survives a real laugh.
Wander on, my Wanderlaugh.
THE INSULT FACTORY
It’s a demanding job being a drafter at the Scientocracy Insult Research Institute. There are curses to create, quips to coif, abuses to adjust, scatology to scatter……Then the material has to be classified, applied, misapplied, misclassified, worked, reworked, approved, and eventually stored somewhere safe where nobody will ever find it. Almost the entire bureaucratic history of Earth, with much the same result.
The Institute was founded on the philosophical basis that insults are a normal part of human life, the main component in some cases, and that therefore a reason for this must exist. It was easy enough to research existing forms of insult, but that didn’t actually answer the question. The meanings of the insults were clear, the reasons for making those actual statements could be understood, and the motivation for a common behavior of an entire species remained unknown.
To clarify this somewhat arbitrary mystery, the Scientocracy decided to manufacture insults so it could observe the entire process systematically. A suitably vast building, with a duly chartered organization and appropriately anonymous staff, was summoned into being. [1]
Drudge Wretch-Frequently had been hard at work and his draft had come back with the sort of comments he’d started to expect from his superiors:
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were a sewer.”
Too cute. Doesn’t awe the recipient.
“….And here, despite evolution, is Fred.”
Needs tarting up a bit. Try a few adjectives on Fred, see if he likes them.
“Relevance is such an elusive thing; do keep trying.”
Approved, grudgingly.
“Of course you’re an English rock star. You’re ugly,
obnoxious, smelly, and dead.”
Too realistic.
“Shouldn’t you be flying around light globes?”
Folksy, but bearable.
“I’m a rational person, it’s just that looking at you
doesn’t help.”
I suppose everyone’s career as an insult drafter has to have some sort of style…… If you must write like this, then do, but don’t expect me to read it.
“Just the sight of you has me feeling sorry for all
those poor unemployed epidemics.”
Better, but requires some sort of attention span to read it.
“A cold barren waste called Graham.”
This is filler material. What about something sickening in a professional area?
“Your meal will
be served, sir, as soon as the bait takes effect.”
Obscure.
“….And if …..Madam?… will just scuttle under the
fridge, she’ll find a friend!”
Drudge, you really should try harder. The person being insulted still has a chance of a bearable life.
“That’s what’s different about you; the only pacifist
in the war of love.”
Gargle, gargle, context, gargle, gargle……
“If they gave few million to a cow, they’d have a
replacement for you.”
This is an insult?
“Until I met Mr.& Ms. …… I didn’t believe in
immaculate conception.”
We may keep you on the payroll after all, Drudge.
“By the law of averages, looking at you, the rest of
the world is full of rich, intelligent, beautiful people.”
Much better. We won’t need the nasty old firing squad, now, will we?
“Didn’t I tread on you in 1967?”
Commendably brief.
“It’s just that the freckles are better looking than
you are.”
Niche insults are usually more reliable.
Drudge arose from his interface, a smile on his mossy face, and trundled serenely into the afternoon knowing that the human legacy was alive.
[1] Well, that bit was inspirational, anyway, Maud.
Yes, Gladys.
Who are you two ladies, and what are you doing in
my book?
Run Maud, he’s got an apostrophe.
Yes, Gladys.