Going To and Fro on the Earth…

…and walking up and down in it.

blake job satan smite crop

The triumphing of the wicked is short,
The joy of the hypocrite is but for a moment
Satan himself is transformed into an Angel of Light
& his Ministers into Ministers of Righteousness.

William Blake

Some of the few remaining pilgrims and seekers who are among the diffuse congregation of the Tent Show may have noticed that Dr. Omed is often absent from his ‘bully’ pulpit for a week…or a month. Where oh where have I been? There is good answer to that: Going to and fro on the earth, and walking up and down in it. I borrowed this answer from an ancient predecessor in the art and practice of theodicy. Always steal from the best.

The truth is that the conjunctio oppositorum of my cyclical temperament and current events (the usual suspects) conspire to stop this bully dead in his pulpit. After all, there are an infinitude of bullies spurting ism jism from their pulpits. I doubt there is a single maiden meme left in the entire Blogosphere and the greater Electronica Politica that has not been ravished, swived, and buzzfed—and thus made big with childishness, made pregnant with illegitimate meaning—outside the bounds of wholly metaphor.

We need new words to describe it all—it’s all so…metaplorable. Sit in front of your blue screen for too long, surfing the jetstream of copulating factoids, and you’ll begin to suffer from optical collusion. Stop feeding memes into the one-mouse bandit in this virtual casino of ideas. The wagers of surf are dark in this our torture infoconomy. Time to rise up from that ergonomically disastrous swivel chair, change underwear, pull on some pants, put on a clean shirt, and go blinking into the daylight (depending on time zone and local weather conditions, of course). Go to and fro on the earth, and walk up and down in it.

I sometimes take my own advice. I go for a walk. I go for another walk. I walk in the woods, I walk by the river, I walk through the cemeteries. Dead people, at least the ones boxed in the ground, are very restful. They don’t talk—much. I walk in the weather of the living world and it is fine. Despite spring allergens. I am fine, mostly fine, at least while I am in the open air, and don’t have to talk to anyone. But I was not cut off from the presence of darkness, and did not hide deep darkness from my face.

shadow stone angel

But here I am, back at the conjuntio, sitting in my shorts in front of the blue screen, fingering keys like poker chips, playing against the panopticon house odds, ready to wager on the next atrocity. Does Job fear God for nothing?

Note: This is old yada, which means the original material was posted to the original Tent Show on Salonblogs, I don’t want to think about how long ago. I’ve revised it somewhat.
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