Tell me about the town in your heart. Are the people noble? Are they optimistically good-natured, or pessimistically flawed? Is the controlling aesthetic sensibility an idealization of the 1950s? The 1960s? The 1920s? What? Tell me about the cops. Who is the mayor? Do you like him or her? Who is the town rascal? What is his vice? Is there any real sorrow in your town, the kind that cannot simply be laughed away over coffee with supportive friends? Tell me about your town.
When I was young, I think my town was too idealistic, like bad Star Trek episodes, where everyone was overtly thoughtful and virtuous. Today my town is more tempered, more flawed, and I can appreciate the value of those flaws. Even today, though, my town is not a reflection of everything I hate. My town is not painted with angry hands, because I am not an angry man. There is no real evil, inexplicable and horrible, in my town.
Still, if my townspeople knew enough to complain, they would complain of a limited scope. They would sing flat hymns about a small creation with a limited sweep. "God is finite," they would say, "but who are we to complain? We cannot be angry about this," they would sigh. "We do not know how." Their longing would be for longing, and their desire for desire.
We all live in our own town, wherever we are. We all play the politics we imagine, engage the enemies we create. We are citizens all, good and bad, of our own society.
And you? You are a stranger here. Make yourself at home. Be our guest. Don't be too sensitive if it seems like we're watching you suspiciously. We don't get strangers around here very often.
Hello, friends. Welcome to me. How are you?
Later. Love.
