I called them this morning and told them about my toe being crushed by a bar chair last, though the word crush is over dramatic since nothing is broken. My mom and dad both asked me if I slugged the guy who did it. No, I said, I didn't hit Jon Augustine back, rather I collapsed to the ground in pain, got up, went outside to look at my toe and see if the pain would gradually fade, signaling that all was well, or if it would stay at the same torturous level, or return to that level if I tried to wiggle my toes, indicating a break.
The pain faded, and I could wiggle. I accepted Aug's apology and would have no matter the diagnosis, why wouldn't I have? I find it very unfortunate that both of my parents seem to consider the source of my pain, the fact that it was another human being, the fact that I was 'wronged' to be more important than the pain itself. If I tried to tell them my own beliefs on the matter, that justice is not about equity or tangible scorekeeping, but is rather nothing more than the prevention, avoidance, and relief of suffering, well I'd probably just lose them I'm afraid.
Really it was just an anecdote I brought up to Mom for the sake of conversation. Really there is nothing that makes this incident distinctive beyond the fact that it happened yesterday instead of Wednesday. I didn't mean to give her the impression that I thought it was a big deal, because really I was just talking to her out of duty instead of an eagerness to talk to her that I have never felt.
There was a cheeky sing-a-long to Joan Osbourne's "One of Us" in Sp ce last night. Now I knew that this has always been a banal piece of Oprah philosophy, that's always been clear. But it wasn't until I head the lyrics that I realized just how inane this old warhorse was;
"If God had a name what would it be?"
There are of course many others, these are just two of the more popular. I mean it's not as if this is obscure knowledge at all you know. This is a thirteen-year-old dirtweed smokers idea of depth, just dense as all hell. Seriously.