Instalment Fifty Six

Optimism is not always dumb.
Pessimism is not always deep.
Much like happiness is not cheap and sadness not always profound.
“I feel the loss of that famous person’s death, I feel them missing from my life.”
“Those riots on the other side of the world meant so much to me.”
“A tragedy like that touches us all.”

TOTAL BALLS!

My thoughts are not with you.
My prayers are not with you.
Claiming a personal stake in the suffering of the day does not make you a better person.
Telling people you care about something does not mean you care about it.
Acting like you are sad about something does not mean you are sad.
Tearing things down does not make others stupid and you smart.
These events are not poker chips to stack beside your name in a fruitless effort to feel important for a fleeting moment.
What you are trying to do is fake, a silhouette.
Live your life.
Care about real things.
Amass actions.
Help people.
Work at it.
You will only change the world when you change yourself first.
Oh and clean your room.

So I can’t go to the sit in then Dad? said Teen.

Instalment Fifty Five

I can’t agree more, I hate kids.

But you work with kids?

Yeah.

Young kids!

You’re damn right.

And you hate them?

Can’t stand ‘em.

So why do you do it?

You are looking at this all wrong. A nurse doesn’t like sick people, a Phsychologist doesn’t love crazy people, an exterminator doesn’t love bugs, an Oncologist doesn’t LOVE cancer.

Are you saying children are like cancer?

You are missing my point. Those people, they cure a problem. They are problem solvers. Like me.

What problem do you solve?

Children, I solve the problem of children.

You solve the problem?

Have you seen them? All wiggly and giggly. Thick as a post, crying, whinging, they don’t know if they are coming or going and they don’t even care. I hate them so much I have devoted my life to curing those little bastards.

And just how do you do that?

You give me a kid and I will sap all the wonder and joy from them, the spark from their eyes and the spring from their step. You give me a child and I will give you back an adult. I am a destroyer of children. I am a Teacher.

Instalment Fifty Four

I bring grave tidings Sir. Attacks continue on all sides. To the East, The Fountain Gate is all but overrun and will soon breach. News is worse out west. Adelaide Queen of Churches has turned, marching her army ten days and ten nights to attack, her numbers swelling each day with all the savages and Barbarions she passes joining her ranks. They say even God’s Angels are marching with her. The West Gate has fallen under their weight. It will be at most a day, before they are amongst us.

Raise the Royal Guard, have them escort Queen Melba to the Abbot’s Fort, there she will be safe. Be wary though, of those that dwell in the Colling Wood, loyal to none but their own, they will likely lash out as you pass. Surely this is the work of our cousins to the North, The Jealous City, for too long we have tolerated their spite. You say God’s Angels march with them? We will wake The St. Killer to our defence. Fear not but be prepared to die my brothers. We are all the sons of Melba. We are Melba born, for Melba we fight and for Melba we die.

Instalment Fifty Three

The last weapon ever invented did not shoot or stab, it did not harm people at all. The Doubt Grenade didn’t need to, it was far too devastating. Lobbed in battle, the Doubt Grenade caused those exposed in the blast radius to question whatever action they were engaged in. “Why are we fighting?” they would ask, setting down their weapons. The genius of it was no one was sure it had even gone off, such was the cloud of doubt. They didn’t know they had been exposed. Sure, the experimental Truth Bomb could’ve been used but confusion is far better in an enemy that enlightenment, it was war after all.

Wars were finished, over without casualty.

But this was simply the beginning.

The Doubt Grenade made its way into urban warfare, a terrorist dropped one at customs enabling him to walk onto the plane carrying a second, which he dropped at the cockpit door. The pilots no longer believed they could land and circled till the fuel ran out. Guilty defendants dropped them in courtrooms, jealous ex-lovers rolled them down the aisle towards waiting happy couples, boardroom meetings halted.

I don’t know if we should do anything about it though?

Instalment Fifty Two

I used to know a girl who had perfect memory. I don’t mean a good, perfect, never forgot a thing. Now I’m not often wrong, if something important happens I try to flick the record button in my head. She had no button, she was always on record. She said it was a curse. She would tell people that something happened one way and they remembered it another. This makes people angry. It’s confronting, suddenly you feel you aren’t experienced the world right.

She could play her memories, projected as film onto the canvas of their real-life locations. Replaying a good memory, she’d experience the happiness anew, so clear that remembering became its own fond memory. When I think about times we spent together, all I have left are hazy mental snap shots. We had a picnic in that park, I think, but what we wore, ate or said are gone. Looking at my blurred snaps I think they were happy ones but is that true or what I have decided looking back? She would know if we were happy or if we weren’t. Maybe we weren’t. Maybe that’s why I no longer know her. Maybe that is a curse.