~Chapter Seven~                                                             THE SQUAB WHO ROARED--- "Don't worry about everything. Nothing is going to be alright. "                                                                                                                                   --- Richard O'Barry  Existentialism is the philosophy that asks some of the most cryptic and frustrating of questions, because there can be no answers to them.  There's no way (at present) to prove whether or not a tree falling in a forest makes a sound or has thoughts like us (although I think I heard one sigh: "oh crap " once).  Still, whether they have answers or not, the questions are just as compelling.  At the core of this mode of thinking, you have only your naked faith acting as your guide.  The Existentialist fundamentally believes that in order to exist, you must first will yourself into reality or existence.  It contends that life itself is but a reflection, a shadow of the conscious state which created it, or dragged it into being.  The poster boy phrase of this construct of thought, is "cogito ergo sum." I think, therefore I am. It supposes that with the merest of thoughts, comes a state of being, otherwise--- who's asking the question? In contemporary existentialist, Richard Bach's book "Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah," he posits this enigmatic statement: "And if you've wondered if you've passed life's little test,  then here's a hint: if you're still alive, you haven't."  This message can be taken on an individual basis (a selfish one), but can also apply to the universe as a whole, for it too exists.  It has always been here, and always will in one form or another.  In the pages yet to come, we'll examine more closely, the nature of existence. We'll come upon an agreement (I hope) that it's only a way of perceiving things.  We'll also try to conclude that this perception is limited only by the degree to which we're aware, and that the reality we choose is but the tiniest fraction of the whole.        See what I mean about this existentialist stuff? To the uninitiated, this reads as complete nonesense.  Where's the proof? To feel somewhat disconcerted by it is completely natural I'm sure.  It also sort of makes my head hurt.  Sorry about this, but whenever I get this confused, I can't help but be reminded again of my Sunday school days.  It's a sort of knee jerk reaction I suppose to feeling bullied.  So, off we go...    This was a time of great disappointment for me, as I believe was already hinted.  My natural (and insatiable) curiosity caused a lot of trouble in an environment that's designed to suppress questions, and not to encourage them. But I was too young to have an agenda or a score to settle, nor did I yet have an ego to bruise, so I just kept firing away.  Wrapped up snugly in the innocence of youth, the most frequently asked question is usually just one word long --- "why?"     I couldn't wait to start hearing old man Ross begin the opening volleys of his weekly fart fest. It was as if he we singing his own kind of hymn, where new notes were added each week. I particularly liked looking around at all the people who were pretending not to notice their faithful old friend's impressive barrage. Unfortunately, despite my amusement, I'd inevitably succumb to  a similar gastric disturbance of sorts, bubbling up in me. With old man Ross's flatulence still echoing in my ears, the anger started percolating.  As is usually the case when a story's based on past events, or on the memory of them, I can't be sure exactly how these questions of mine were actually posed. Nor am I absolutely positive, which lessons in the bible were being taught that day so many summers ago. All I can do is give a rough account of how it might have gone down, some 3 decades ago.     First off, I'm pretty sure I had to be a real pain in the ass.  Plus, my mood was always less than pleasant while feeling trapped in a place I didn't want to be.  I remember squirming uncomfortably in the ridiculous clothes I was being made to wear.  They were hot, itchy, encumbering, riding up, creeping down, creasing, tucking,  un-tucking.  In short, they sucked.  As if god cares what you wear when you're praying to him.  At this point in my life, I was praying that the church would at least spring for an air-conditioner, among other things.  Something to eat besides bread wouldn't have been bad either.  I remember detesting all the formality, even before I knew what it was.     This was a time when I still believed in Santa, and in an invisible man who lived up in the sky that gave a damn.  The bible told me to honor my father (actually, "thy" father, whatever the heck that was, my five  year old mind protested).  I was already a hearty supporter of my mother.  I'd already gotten a grasp on this whole "honoring" concept, but mom was the only one who really seemed to care for me, or for that matter, the only one who was always around.      Usually my questions were addressed through her, and she did her best to answer them if she could.  But some of my queries were deferred on occasion, and she directed me to a higher power.  "Ask the elders," she sometimes said.  I was raised a Mormon (it's no more or less confused than any of the other religions), so that's what we were asked to call our people of the cloth, elders. Anyway, the really big questions were generally reserved for them.        One of the first concerns I had, was that there was this guy up there who knew the thoughts and prayers of everyone.  And he listened to them all, good or bad, right or wrong, red or yellow, black or white.  I figured he was just like Santa, only he took money every Sunday, instead of giving us good kids neat toys once a year.  It pained me with twinges of guilt, every time I'd caught myself thinking things like, "Maybe I like Santa more than I do god."     At least I knew what Santa looked like.  Actually, the few pictures that did depict god, looked strikingingly similar to ol' St. Nick, only god had less fashion sense. I do however, remember relating better to God, than to Santa.  Santa gave, while god seemed always to be a taker.  If you didn't do what he said, he could even take your soul away.  Apparently, it belonged to him in the first place.     But since I was still a kid, I didn't yet learn to know the joy of giving.  Taking was much more fun.  But apparently, god had given all of us so much more than a "Rock 'em, Sock 'em" robot set.  God, I was constantly being told, had given all of us "everlasting life." I remember thinking, "well, that's sorta neat, but was there enough cartoons and cookies to last that long?" What good was living forever, if we ran out of Daffy Duck cartoons and Oreos? You know something? Apart from the cookies, my attitude hasn't really changed all that much.    The more I thought about god's plan for me, the less enthusiastic I became.  Plus, it was becoming even tougher for me to ignore all those terrible things he was always doing to people and animals.  All those is-ra-lite guys, and every animal on Earth being drowned, except for two of everything (two mosquitoes, male and female! Thanks for that one Bill).      What about those poor Fil-a-steens? No, it was the Fil-a-steins, my immature mind thought.  They were kinda like Frankenstein, only with those cool gold helmets and spears.  I liked the part in the movie where that sam-sun guy split their heads wide open with just that one bone I wasn't allowed to mention out loud. Yeah, I liked the idea that you could kill a million people or something, with a bone that comes from some animal named after our butts. That was nifty in the movie, but did god really allow such stuff to happen in real life?     All those dead people.  And the whole world was drownded to death, just because of a little rain. There's one that really concerned me, especially every time the sky got dark with clouds, and it began to sprinkle.  My apprehension was eased somewhat by how Mom always told me not to worry about floods.  For one thing, that happened a long time ago, and she told me that it would have to pour for 200 days and nights or something.     Mom assured me that there would be no more floods, although I had my doubts when the Mississippi overflowed its banks every spring.  God's promise to us was seen whenever a rainbow appeared in the sky.  There would still be the little floods, like whenever the water flooded the streets down by the river, but that wasn't too bad usually.  Never again would god flood the whole planet.  The rainbow was a sim-bull of that promise.  Nope, no more whole world floods for us.    Anyhow, he'd thought of even better ways to punish us.  Now if we were bad, he'd just throw us into a lake of fire and leave us there forever.  If I had my choice of how to die, I'd rather have the flooding.  Water's a lot cooler.  Oh well, mine was not to question why, mine was but to do or die. For some reason, whenever someone was inept at explaining questionable ideas, it was always set to rhyme. "There once was this god in heaven, he'd quit listening to me at age seven." Maybe I'd start trying to believe again as I got closer to dying.  Wait a minute though, god said that we'd live forever.  How could I die? Even if I were burning in a sea of fire, I'd still be alive.     Conundrums like this started driving me crazy.  But not to worry, because someday, when I got older, then I'd understand.  But patience was never a virtue with me, even though I was told it should be.  I couldn't wait.  I had to have answers that were now multiplying like rabbits in my curious little head.  What's the harm in asking just a few well chosen questions? From now on, you and the inner voice inside of you will be called "we." It was this voice that began clearing its throat so to speak, in the early years. It was this inner self that responded to the inanity of your church days.  "Ahem," it said.  "Are we really taking any of this talking bush stuff seriously?" We had questions that were in need of being taken seriously.  Certainly, they were to be taken more seriously than your teachers were willing to take them.  Looking back to those formative times, a funny pattern began quickly to emerge.  The more questions that we'd ask, the more angry the elders became. Right now, we want to be all profound and impressive sounding, but the inner child wants to take over now.  We are that 5 year old once more:               Yes, the old people got really mad, which made ME mad too.  Their getting frustrated was often all it took for my questions to be dismissed.  So I kept on asking these questions anyway.  They'd always try to ignore them, or they'd just slough them off to someone else.  It really hurt me that they'd do that, because I didn't understand why a simple question could get them so riled (ok, a little kid might not know a word like "riled," but that's the price you pay for a employing a shared consciousness).  It's like they were afraid of me or something.  Well, maybe not of me by myself. Outside of my shoe horn, I was completely unarmed.        I was only a little boy, a mere squab without any teeth.  They could push me into the floor tile with their thumb if they wanted to.  No, it wasn't me that they'd feared, but only my questions.  They seemed harmless enough to me, but I was warned that if I kept this up, then they'd have to perform the laying on of hands (the Mormon version of healing).  This confused me in that I didn't feel sick at all.  When I heard that, I started getting scared too, and not just mad.  They hinted around that maybe my mind had become the property of the devil.  Well, that was that.  This accusation alone was the basis for one of my more simple questions.        Take this devil character for instance.  Who was he, and why did he seem so much more interested in me than god did? I'd always wanted a friend.  I was just like Boris Karloff as Frankenstein's monster in that respect.  In fact, the only way I could take wearing the silly dress suit I was still being made to wear, was in knowing that one of my favorite monsters didn't seem to mind wearing his. Needless to say, I wasn't quite like the other kids.  Even worse, none of the other kids seemed to like me much.  Maybe they just didn't want to become associated with me because of all the trouble I brewed.  Knowing them, they probably believed the elders and their suggestion that I might be the devil's child.  Who knows?     All I really cared about at the time was getting some kind of approval, but I couldn't find it.  Who doesn't want to be appreciated in some way? At any rate, I was startled to discover that I found myself secretly admiring this so-called devil of theirs.  I knew this was a bad thing to feel, because I'd been taught that he was what they called ee-vul.  I didn't know what that was, except that it was the opposite of good.  Whatever that was. I knew milk was good on Graham crackers, but beyond that, I was obviously without a clue.  Actually, I knew what good was.  I just didn't see much evidence that it really existed unless someone stood to gain from it. I guess cynicism started early with me.     I found it almost as impossible to find goodness in the world, except maybe from mom.  All I know is, this devil seemed to hear me more than that god man, seeing as all the attention he was giving me.  I was certainly getting lots of attention from the elders who apparently saw me as the devil's mouth piece.  To them it seemed, it was the devil who was making me ask all of these blass-fuh-mus questions.  I found that funny, because here all this time, I thought it was me who'd been asking them. I listened, but could hear no voice in my head that sounded like Bela Lugosi or Boris Karloff (surely THEY knew this devil person).  I don't remember any such voices ever telling me to say these terrible things.         I'd been raised to take full responsibility for my own actions.  I wanted full credit for all this commotion I was stirring up.  I didn't need my devilish side-kick at all.  I was still young enough now though, to start getting a little bit frightened when I heard all this talk behind my back.  The elders were telling each other that they thought I might be po-zest.  I didn't understand what was meant by that either, but knew that I didn't like the sound of  it.     Like with so many other things coming out of their mouths, it didn't make sense to me.  I knew what re-po-zest was.  That was like the time when Mom had a coat that she bought for my little sister, but she couldn't pay for it.  So she took the coat back to the store from where she'd bought it .  They took a bunch of things from us over the years in fact.  People could be pretty mean sometimes.  But this po-zest business? It really mixed me up.  I guess what they meant was,  that I was taken over by Satan.  He must've been taking back something that I'd borrowed from him, or visee-versee.      But it wasn't my coat, they said, that he'd taken from me.  It was my im-oral (?), no, it was my im-or-tel sole.  This was funny to me too, because the bottoms of my shoes were just fine.  Mom had only just bought them for me at a yard sale last week.  I looked at my soles one more time to make sure that the devil hadn't taken them from me when I wasn't looking.  Nope.  Still there, and why would he want them anyway?  They weren't anything special, and the bottoms were kind of smudged too.  And why was there always a hunk of gum mashed in there?      Maybe he really likes these shoes.  I got the feeling though, that as usual, they were talking about something totally different.  It figures.  I was becoming rapidly more agitated by all of this.  Such commotion, just because I wanted an answer to a few harmless questions.  I figured, if I was old enough to ask them, then I was also old enough to get some answers.  I had nothing to lose but my sole.  Even if I lost it to the devil, I could always hop around on just the one I had left. As our anger, or more accurately, our mistrust grew toward the elders, so too did our boldness.  We loved this attention, even to the point where we no longer received approval.  That didn't matter any more. The issues being raised to a fever-pitch by the church were too significant to take so lightly, and so literally.  If there was this god who looked in from time to time, wouldn't he, she ,or it --- appreciate our diligence? All these questions should be considered flattering to such a being.  We were only showing how we cared by remaining curious enough to keep on asking them.  As for why the elders got so upset, given their lack of commitment, we knew the reason why no answers could be expected from them.  They simply didn't know.  Theirs might not have been to question why, but ours was.