Questions Answered

? 

Oh, that’s easy. It’s all about me.  

Because without me, nothing exists. It’s true for you, too. It’s true for everybody. There’s been all kinds of incomprehensible philosophical treatises written about this very thing, but remember – without me, there is no philosophy. It’s just a way to while away the time and get depressed, if you ask me. 

No, not selfish. Without me, I can’t be selfish. With me, I can be selfish or I can not be. With me, there’s a choice. Like, I give money to charity, you know. 

Which God? There’s scads of them. The Romans had lots of gods. So did the Greeks. The Hindus have lots of them. Some think it’s the earth itself. Some have no names. Some have three names. 

Oh, the Christian God. God in three persons, blessed Trinity. I was raised with that. These days, I wonder whether there are even different Christian Gods. Is the Catholic God the same as the Eastern Orthodox God? The Baptist God? The Lutheran God? The Fundamentalist God? The Presbyterian God? The Trump God? Why are there so many Christian denominations? I looked it up once and mileage (estimates) will vary depending on how you define denomination. Basically, the first schism was the break between Martin Luther and Catholicism, and churches ain’t been doing nothing but schisming ever since, it seems.  There’s probably at least one schism going on right now even as we speak. Anyway, I ask – did God create us in his own image or do we create God in our own image? I’ve come to believe it’s the latter, not the former. I’m talking about the old white guy with bushy white hair and bushy white beard and hairy chest. Jesus, everybody knows he has immaculately coifed long auburn hair and blue eyes. See what I mean? 

Oh, I have no clue what happens to me after I die. I rather doubt I’ll be floating on a cloud with my own little harp and if I did have a harp, I’d probably be lousy at playing it. Probably so bad, I’d get sent to hell before long. 

Oh, my head just hurts thinking about theology. For me, it’s all contained in a wonderfully wise and witty little song by Iris Dement. Worth quoting some of it: 

“Some say once gone, you’re gone forever 

And I ain’t sayin’ it ain’t a fact 

Some say you’re going to a place called Glory 

If in the ways of sin you lack 

Some say you’re coming back in a garden 

Bunch Of carrots and little green peas 

But I choose to let the mystery be 

I believe in love and I live my life accordingly. 

So I choose to let the mystery be.” 

Well, there you have it. I’m quite comfortable with letting the mystery be. 

Geez, nature. All those creepy, crawly things everywhere. Some will kill you. Maggots. Too hot or too cold most of the time. Weeds. Skeeters. Kale. I could go on. 

Well, I say the universe doesn’t care about me and I don’t care about it. Imagine you could be two persons, one exactly like the other in all aspects. One of you somehow takes off from earth like a rocket ship. In no time the rocket version of you cannot distinguish the earth you from all other earthlings. In another flash, the rocket you can not see any earthlings at all. A few more flashes, the rocket you cannot see the earth at all. A few more flashes still, and the rocket you cannot see even your own galaxy. That’s how insignificant I am. Eventually the rocket you gets sucked into a black hole and gets atomized, vaporized, and nullified. I find that strangely comforting.  

Anyway, to the universe I’m absolutely zero infinity. That’s why I say the universe doesn’t care about me so I don’t care about it. It’s all about me. 

You can’t be serious, Joleen, can you? Summarize all these answers about what’s it all about? 

Yes, that hurt! You haven’t slapped me that hard since our first date. 

Ok, here goes.  

You put your left foot in 

You put your left foot out 

You put your left foot in 

And you shake it all about 

You do the hokey pokey 

And you turn yourself around. 

Truly – that’s what it’s all about. 

Ow! Uh, what I meant to say is for me, it’s all about you. You are my only possession, you are my everything. Come a little bit close, you’re my kind of girl. 

Oh, yes, that’s better. Much, much better. 

Published by clackker@gmail.com

I write short stories - usually about a thousand words, more or less - for my pleasure, and yours.

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