The Nazi Resettlement Program Never Got Any Shit In The News

As my old man once said when I was old enough to understand what words meant, “We gotta pay the Nazis to fight the commies. You think them lousy commies gonna fight for nothing?”

People were created to fail and disappoint one another.

I typed that and I lean back and think awhile.

Drink a little.

Take a couple of tokes.

I still can’t make sense out of anything.

I know a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff but I am not convinced that my interactive life is real. I know my inner life is not important. I have been aware of my inner life, in all its beautiful paradoxes for more than three quarters of a century.

As recently as one hundred years ago, three quarters of a century was pretty much equivalent to three generations. For all our progress, we’re in our fifth generation since I got shit out by dear old mom. Imagine that.

My father’s father arrived in this hemisphere as a cabin boy on an wooden Italian ship. He had run away from home.

When I read One Hundred Years Of Solitude for the first time in the seventies, I realized that my grandfather was a lot like Colonel Aureliano Bundia, whose chief indelible memory as he stood before a firing squad years later was the day his father took him to discover ice.

It has become increasingly clear as I stumble toward the bin of discarded Punch & Judy bits that the reality I prefer is the one I have imagined to keep me alive, assembled from things that others have imagined by remembering the imaginings of other dreamers before them.

So I paint caves.

Because the real world does not dream and cannot imagine anything other than what it already knows. America’s motto is not: “E Pluribus Unum.”

It’s: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it."

So here we are again on Dover Beach, wondering when this second coming we keep hearing so much about is finally going to get here so we can decide whether it’s lived up to all the hype.