The Prince and the Goldfish

 Once upon a time, there lived a handsome prince. He was surrounded by all things beautiful and wonderful, and never wanted for anything. His every need was attended, his every whim granted. He was an exceedingly spoiled prince.

                He was prone to tantrums, and would blame his own short-comings on the people around him. If he missed a target in archery practice, he blamed the god of the winds. If he read a word of which he didn’t know the meaning, he had his tutor flogged.

                Once, he had his rooms redecorated, and before the work was done, he lost interest in the scheme. To compensate for this, he had the decorator and all of his assistants put to death. He started redecorating as the executions were taking place, having no stomach for such spectacles.

                The only creature he had any warm feelings for was his pet goldfish. He admonished the slaves taking care of his precious fish that if anything happened to it, something bad would happen to all of them.

                The prince’s little pet eventually died, goldfish not being especially long-lived creatures. The young man threw a royal tantrum and, of course, made good on his promise. Not only did he have the caretakers of his little fish put to death, he also had their families punished.

                That night, still distraught over the death of his pet, the prince went to bed. He lay awake for what seemed a very long time, mourning his dead and only friend.

                Finally, he drifted off to sleep. A few minutes later he began to hear a voice calling his name. It was a voice he didn’t recognize, but it was familiar all the same.

“Prince,” the voice called from the splendid room in which he’d kept his precious goldfish. “Prince, what have you done to my friends?”

                The prince awoke in a sweat. He called a slave to him, and told her to go to the room from which the voice had emanated. He told her to tell him everything she saw there, or else.

                The little slave did what she was told. She searched the room, and found nothing amiss, save for a large puddle of water for which she could find no reasonable explanation. She returned to the prince.

                “Well?” demanded the Prince. “What did you see?”

                The little slave, whose name was Mara, could see the prince was very upset. She didn’t want to see him throw a fit like he had the day before, so she told him that all was well, and made no mention of the puddle of water.

                In a few moments, the prince calmed down. He went about his day just as he always had. His mood was even more foul than usual, but there were no executions that day.

                Night came, and the prince settled down into his bed. This time he slept almost immediately, worn out from the day’s bad temper.

                Again, he heard the voice from the goldfish’s room: “Prince, what have you done to my friends?” The prince covered his head with his blanket, but still the voice came. Over and over it said those same words: “What have you done to my friends?”

                Finally, with a great cry, the prince woke. He again called Mara to check the goldfish’s room. Though the puddle of water was now much larger, she returned to the prince with the same story: all was well.

                This day, the prince’s mood was even worse than the previous day. He had a slave flogged for not rinsing his sponge properly after washing a pot. Another slave was beaten for making the prince’s bed with the wrong color sheets.

                Again, night fell. As the prince was preparing for bed, he called Mara to him. He told her to stay in the goldfish’s room and to report to him what she saw there. He admonished her not to sleep, or the consequences would be dire.

                The prince went to sleep. Again, he heard the voice: “What have you done to my friends?” He called to Mara, but the girl didn’t come. He called again, but still she didn’t show.

                Anger at the slave’s disobedience drove all fear of the voice from his head, and he rose from his bed, and strode into the hallway between the rooms. When he arrived at the room, however, fear once again overtook him.

                Again, the voice came, more loudly than ever: Prince, what have you done to my friends?”

                Mustering all of his meager courage, the prince pushed open the door and stepped in. Mara was nowhere to be seen, but in the middle of the room, as if it were full of water, floated a giant goldfish. It took up almost the entire room, and it was looking right at the prince.

                Exceedingly frightened, the prince turned to flee, only to be met by a locked door. He pounded on the door, crying for someone to let him out, but no one came. Finally, he turned back to the fish.

                “Prince,” boomed the massive voice of the giant, “what have you done to my friends? Did you kill my friends, prince?”

                “Th- they let you die,” the prince stammered.

                “I was old,” the fish replied. “It was my time.”

                “But, you were my fish,” the prince squeaked.

                “One creature does not own another,” the fish replied, and swam closer to the prince.

                Panicked, the prince tried the door again, and this time it gave way.

                He woke up screaming. He called all of his slaves and attendants together, and told them they were all free. Then, as the newly freed people stood there stunned, he turned away from them and fled his palace, through the town outside, and into the forest.

                Once he was gone, Mara emerged from her hiding place behind the prince’s bed, and said the words once more to herself: “Prince, what have you done to my friends?” and laughed.

                For many years after, people would tell the story of the Old Man of the Forest, who lived in a cave in a remote place, and cared for and communed with the animals.

Who are the Aliens?

Capitalism creates aliens. Any sufficiently wealthy person, whether owner of the means of production, the owner of property, or simply the parasitic inheritor, is an alien in the sense that they are removed from the common experience of the rest of society. The more isolated they become from the work of survival, the less like everyone else they are. That is to say, they lose (if they ever had it) the ability to empathize with their fellow humans, and believe that everything they have they deserve; everyone else simply isn't worthy of success due to their own character flaws.

This follow-on effect of capitalism is dangerous, not only because it reflects the unjustifiable hoarding of wealth on the part of a small number of people. But, also because those people, especially after a generation or two, begin to feel like they are different from the rest of the population, better and more deserving, not just because they work harder (which, of course, they don't) but, because they are somehow chosen by God. This is the basis of feudalism and monarchy.

If this seems far-fetched, all one has to do is to look around the US at this moment. People who think this way are already here.  The whiny, over-privileged little boy who currently occupies the Oval Office is a prime example. He feels like he deserves whatever he wants, simply because he is who he is. This intense, maniacal gluttony for acquisition is precisely what makes people like this alien.

The seed of alienation is inside all humans, however. Anyone who becomes wealthy, by whatever means, is at risk of this unfortunate fate. We know this, because these people are still just human, with the same biology and underlying psychology as the rest of us. They simply have been poisoned, and transformed into something less than human, something alien.

I say unfortunate because it is a condition that, no matter how wealthy they are, cannot last. Eventually, everyone dies, and they have spent their short lives bent on getting more and more, and it is never enough. They damage society by removing resources that would be better used in some other way than just sitting in their coffers. They poison those around them by infecting them with the same psychosis. They damage themselves because they are never happy.

Capitalism is an alien god, and it creates aliens in its own image. We can do better. We can purge the alien influence on our society and rule ourselves instead. We don't need them, they need us. 

This

“It is customary to blame secular science and anti-religious philosophy for the eclipse of religion in modern society. It would be more honest to blame religion for its own defeats. Religion declined not because it was refuted, but because it became irrelevant, dull, oppressive, insipid. When faith is completely replaced by creed, worship by discipline, love by habit; when the crisis of today is ignored because of the splendor of the past; when faith becomes an heirloom rather than a living fountain; when religion speaks only in the name of authority rather than with the voice of compassion--its message becomes meaningless.”
― Abraham Joshua Heschel, God in Search of Man: A Philosophy of Judaism

Bowie

I'm a phallus in pigtails
And there's blood on my nose,
And my tissue is rotting
Where the rats chew my bones,
And my eye sockets empty
See nothing but pain.

-From "Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed" 

Oops

OK, so the poem everyday thing didn't work out. Surprise! Oh, well. Something is coming soon, though.

Days 4 and 5

I've already missed one, so I will write two today.

1.
A creaking mess invades my sleep
Lying like stone, rigid, unmoving but awake
A blank wall, unbroken until now
Silence like a deep river, shattered by a groan
Only a little like a tramp, fallen from the train
Less pathetic, but more worthy of pity
But, I do not rise to the occasion.

2.
However it may be
On and on
In and in
Inward and outward
Alone and crowded out
A universe, rattling and teeming
With a single thing

Who knows the self
Knows the rest
Who resides in knowledge
Knows how to rest
Call it what you will
Power or repose
It is a response

Day 3

Spittle in the road
Only a bit
Glinting in the fading sun
A tiny, wretched prism

Silence falls slowly in the dusk
Missing the point
And night receives
The final toast

Whisked away by new glow
Filling the wisest course
With tiny hazards
But just for a moment