The wounded sea

In these disparate times when medicines seems to wound more than it heals, I take refuge in the maxim that nature knows her task most when man knows his place least. Sometimes a lamp shines into this darkness, like little Aung San Suu Kyi, who knows the power of patience over prejudice. She has no thought to pocket with one hand when giving with the other.

I used to study a lot, and never received punishment for it. Mostly I learned something, but sometimes what I didn’t learn was far more important. The first maxim of healing is to first do no harm, besides things are never as bad as they appear.

In the pornographic lens of war, lies abound about who sides with who. The finger that points to evil often casts a greater shadow on the hand that holds it. We are told Syria is bad, and the West is good, but unlike a clock-face, a moral compass has no hands.

In the ocean of debt, Moody has plumbed the draught of the Titanic and yes, with only the coal funnel appears above the waterline. We can assume it may be be sinking, and some of the ship’s crew are fingered. Alas, in history’s rewriting, the Iceberg will be blamed, and the fox shall return into its sheep’s clothing. The priests give their well-paid sermons, and during the incantations, the lifeboats have been launched, mainly thanks to those wise chinamen who know a shovel from a spade. As she sinks beneath the waves, lets just sing the lyrics of denial, or pop another lyrica, and invoke another timeline where Uncle Sam ruled the seas and the mess of reality did not impinge the fantasy.

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