Of schools we had our druthers, for blood we had our brothers

enlightenment (Buddhists), sagehood (Confucians), freedom (Kantians), authenticity (existentialists), or flourishing (Aristotelians).

As against that I poke my head into Kekulé’s dream and make space for the baleful effects of giving a heterodox gloss on scripture-based orthodoxy. The triune Godhead notwithstanding . . . .

The menu does not list prices, or tell what intensity of conviction might be mandated to cook the starch and metabolize the protein. Everyone is everywhere tired of just making do, and tired of complaining of being tired of just making do. In place of mental scaffolding on which to make an ascent I will suffer mere mental furniture on which to find a steady seat and rest my weary feet, stoke my fabulous resentment, palpate the outer edges of abundant honesty.

I won’t go to shanty town where the simulacrum of schooling is projected onto the largest wall still standing, which isn’t large, in relative terms, at all. There are no tickets to travel there. You just end up there, at the end of a rope to which it seems like you could be clinging or from which you might be hanging, from one moment to the next.