Bare-Assed Attention

Do you accept it?  The premise that this Earth’s remaining tribal folk — the “bare assed” among us (as P. Theroux would have it) -- are the best of us?  And if that's so, might you yearn to join them?  Providing they would have you, which of course they would not.  Could not, since the one true way into their confidence is through the birth canal.  Besides, what could you offer them for your participation?  Them being so very self-sustained.  But say they said sure, come on, and simply asked for your smart phone ... would you give it to them?  

Look again.  Their shade of green, so enticing.  The village embrace --  it's all about family, isn't it?  Not your own dysfunctional crew, nattering over who does what, gathering maybe once a year, when resignation, long drives, and chaos ensue.  No, the tribally bonded sing, "from each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs," Blanc's phrase, unwritten between them.

But wait -- did you forget?  Our world, too, was raised that way.  Together, the mastodon went down; United, the barn went up. The communal meal that tempered envy, the combined effort that assuaged anger, the prescribed rituals that dulled sharp inquisition ... the long, long list of small agreements, so gradually ingrained.  Until (we see it now) those expectations went against the grain.

Yet innocence, distantly reflected, attracts.  Is truth within it?  No child left behind.  No elder left alone.  No one eats unless everyone eats.

  

We might recall a variant.  An experiment, we’ll call it, from long ago.  Shoulder to shoulder, comrades in bare arms, choosing differently, sharing in light of day. And then, in dark of night, the old ones, sneaking extra loaves of bread out of the commissary to stash in their cabins.  Young parents, whispering to sleepy toddlers covertly spirited out of the common nursery.  And you, padding off, under cover of shadows, to the indie vendor, off compound, for a private indulgence of foreign chocolate.

The point being, you could choose -- and choose you did. 

Not an ivory tower exactly.  No palatial extravagances, albeit your version of necessity might seem grand to your ancient grandmothers.  Simply your space, your own, your beloved, solitary house of cards, built up on the work of all those gone before you.  You were the wolf that strayed from the pack and thrived.  Yes you -- the exotic weed, loosed on unsuspecting Eden.

Freedom becomes you.  That to which you give your attention, grows.  Festivals and farmers markets? Exhaustive, really, and there's all that hugging. What can't be accomplished, and more effectively, online, on the couch, in front of the fireplace?  Indeed, what primal intercourse could replace the luxury of cursing the technology that delivers multiple worlds unto your warm lap?  Admit it, you refuse even to twitter.  

An eye in the morning mirror winks back at you.