Posts published in “Prose”

As a noun, balance is a perception of the distribution of proportions; coincidentally, as a noun, balance is also a majority of proportions. Humans tend to overlook the latter if we feel the former is maintained to our liking. In other words, the world is viewed as being fair if we are treated fairly; we tend to not visualize others’ views, then, because theirs are overshadowed by our own. This is our ignorance. Inversely, if we feel we do not have a majority of or equal proportions, we look intently at the distribution of proportions to provide insight into whether another does have a majority of proportions, and, if another does have a majority, we analyze why they have a majority. In other words, the world is viewed as unfair if we are not treated fairly; we tend to visualize others’ views in relation to our own, then, because theirs overshadow our own. This is our obsession.

Beyond the simple definitions above, we innately depend on balance as a means to both perceive and interact with our existence. We treasure symmetry as a sign of perfection and familiarity, to the point where asymmetry is valued to offset symmetry’s ideal with its opposite. Balance is integral to our species, and to that end we make obvious representations (yin & yang, tortoise & hare, light & dark,…) to remind ourselves how we strive for balance. We also use a perception of gravitational balance to physically position ourselves as we see fit; we use balance for our basic means of mobility.

I do not know the struggles my daughter will go through, just as I do not know the struggles her grandmothers, protestors for peace & equality, went through. I also do not know the life-altering situations she will go through, just as I do not know the life-altering situations my uncle, a retired police officer, went through. I do know, however, that she will face both, and that her race will be a factor, no matter how hard her grandmothers and great-uncle fought to free her from that burden.

Justice is not blind; justice is a glacier slowly, surely, melting from the ever-burning sun of societal changes; justice denies more balance than is granted, until the denials pile and fall off the scale, replaced by, but still weighed against, the balancing of society.

We value balance in all things. We find symmetry to be beautiful, and feel so strongly that we must also find asymmetry to be just as beautiful.

The echo of blades spinning lands in his ear.
“God dammit! Again? We had given them reason to stop–”

“We’ll give them another reason,” interjected the man to his side.

“Don’t be hasty, George.”

“Then why are we here, Tom? To camp?”

“Asshat.”

“Whatever, man. Are we going to let the others know, or let them keep cutting?”

Walking into camp, the others knew what was going to be said by the way Tom was shaking his head and the way George’s happiness was barely being held back.

George handles confrontation the way a shark handles water; it’s his territory, and everyone else is trespassing until he kicks them out.

Tom, though, knew as much of confrontation as a panda knows how to hunt in a desert; he’ll stand his ground, then wander a bit, and eventually faint from dehydration or fear.

The others bent forward and lifted themselves up from the log.

“I heard saws,” Tom said, nearly not wanting to say so.

“Any scary things left from last time?,” asked George.

“No…,” said the third from the left.

“Shit. How are we going to scare them this time?” Tom didn’t like confrontation, but one-sided scare tactics allowed the group to get what they wanted without risking anything.

“I can…,” George trailed off.

“Do it, and we’ll kick you out,” the second from the right said, straight-faced and with an obvious disdain for George’s thought processes. Depending on others is tantamount to one’s having failed.

George’s eyes hid behind their olds for a second, then widened as though being electrocuted. He was furious, though knew he couldn’t say anything; the incident a few years ago embarrassed him enough, and he didn’t need another.

“Fuck it. We’ve been here and doing this for 7 years. If they don’t know yet that we’re not to be messed with, then it’s their damn fault if they get hurt.” Tom’s panda spirit animal awakened, sounding more like a grizzly.

“Wow, Tom, so will you be going up to them this time?” asked the first from the left.

“No, I’m a lookout. I, …” Tom responded, not even wanting to finish what his responsibilities are. He always knew he was more important than they thought, but only when they needed him did they say so.

“We know, Tom. Everyone has their role,” said the tenth, a grey-haired woman who knew Tom from before all this, and knew what his potential was. She pitied Tom; not because he was a failure, but because he didn’t know his own potential, so never could have lived up to it.

“Let’s try to reason with them, then. They know why we’re in the way, and we know why they don’t care. The last outcome either of us can stomach is to have the other’s wants done in full,” the sixth from the log stated, with a hint of a plea.

“Alright, alright. I’ll go back,” responded George.

As Tom turned to see George leave, he focused on tomorrow. He would spend it with his families, home and work, going after a day he could smile about later. He couldn’t wait for this weekend, “responsibility to the world,” shit to end; he’d rather be responsible every day, and not try to be someone for a few days who acted as though they had anyone else but his own best interests at heart. Hell, he did this for time with the boss, George, not to save anything; shit, other than his family and friends, what did he really want to save?

He loosened his neck.

He did this whenever he would otherwise be relaxed.

“My remindance of life,” he would say, if ever he were asked– not yet, no, but if so.

His hands, having completed their task, left his neck for his horse’s.

He gave himself more time to ponder if anyone would ask, and began placing the odds on his Mother, if she were to see him again. He realized her odds were not realistic and revised them.

Many on the path he took had not seen their mothers again, he thought; he is now another numbered soul, lasting so long as someone else wonders who had been on this path.

Being from his town, he gave no more thought to loneliness, and remembered how far he yet had to travel.

Farther down the path, or up and down if taking into account the gully his horse just trod through, he sought a sign he was headed where he should be.

He loosened his neck.

Soft crackles emanated from beneath his hands.

Satisfied, he continued looking forward, forging through a landscape he would, if not focused, have grown to appreciate.

He wondered, if he were to be hanged, if his neck would snap quicker or give him time to reminisce longer. He had heard of the flashbacks, but only from those who had not died.

Odd, he thought, how others can know such occurrences without having had them. Then, he could know a fish breathes underwater without doing so himself. He liked his comparison, and tilted forward in his saddle a bit.

Again, he wondered if he would be able to remember all he could. He started to visualize his youngest self, though could not discern memory from story.

He loosened his neck.

Seeing as he had not done enough to be hanged, he found comfort in the length of life yet lived, and let his memories fade into his background.

He loosened his neck.

Stiff, he thought. It may be that he should stop.

He leaned back in his saddle, the man who had all he owned with him, and looked around. [letting focus fade into his background]