(About a 2 minute read)
I once knew a woman, very pleasant.
Middle aged, a real estate agent.
She smiled and laughed easily but
She had no grasp of technology,
Let alone the principles of science,
Let alone the cosmic division
Between natural causes and the gods.
The world to her was still magical,
She was so like a child in that way.
And least you think she was a happy person
Or a good person to always be around,
Rather than merely visit now and then.
She couldn’t fathom why light bulbs
Must burn out someday, and would blame
You or the last person in the room,
For messing with her bulbs.
“Did you screw with my bulb”, she’d say.
Truly! She’d say that!
And she wasn’t kidding you.
It was like being blamed
When you were a kid for Steve’s misdeed.
No one believed you, you’ll recall,
Thought you were lying like a child
When you pointed out the true miscreant.
She wouldn’t believe you, you see.
She had it all wrong, and you were the child.
She’d take you back, back to kidhood,
In so many ways.
Magic once excited me but it grew up
Strong and brave to become the sciences.
Some of us still long for our youth
And the fun we had taming talking rabbits,
Or flying on the throw rugs of our dreams.
But I tell you it’s not really pretty
When an even pleasant, cheerful person
Blames you for the crisis in her life.
I suppose somewhere back of her mind
Was the prize winning Nobel knowledge
That her bulbs sometimes burnt out
For reasons lesser than your malice,
Your bad character, and ill-will.
But magic usually got the upper hand
In her intellectual calculations,
Much helped, I think, by our Age,
A frightening Age when all of us clearly see
That truth has become comfortably
Relative, and easy to access.
Just look deep inside, the deeper the best,
To check your proposition X
Against the movements
Of your intestinal gas
To see if X feels good to you.
“What’s true for you
Is not true for me
And you’re not my reality check.
I’ll consult my intestines for that,
Thank you kindly.”