There is something better in all of us.
A hidden voice looking for the resonance, the coincident harmonic in the universe pervading us. The better angels watching over us, crying their tears of loss for the banal atrocities we commit upon ourselves in the course of completing pedestrian tasks.
Within this maelstrom lies the calm eye of compassion and perception. The karmic compulsion for decency and acceptance. A communal tide carrying us to a far, pure, ever distant country but one with an unwavering polar star.
Within this game the pendulum swings with maddening frequency; a cadence comparable to a tachycardic sprinter on coke. That pandemonic whitecap roils us in the crucible of definition and spits us out on the beachhead, expended and prostrate; naked to the world.
With so much wrong, with so much broken, why do we not see the smallest betterments in this game from those in a position to actually carry them out? While adrift, why do we continue to look to those poor souls, asleep at the helm, for guidance?
It took the smallest-in the literal and figurative sense-within this game, to finally stand up and say with one voice, 'Enough is enough.' The jockeys at Penn National refused to patronize Gill any longer and suddenly the game became aware of this man and his brand of sportsmanship. A man upon whom this dysfunctional and grotty confederacy of dunces we call a league, bestowed the highest award this game has to offer.
We can all cry out for the untold atrocities those noble animals within this game endure on a daily basis. We can wail and bemoan the takeout, the lack of marketing, the headless tacking into the funnel cloud of public oblivion. We can wax poetic about the better days and the sporting nature of better men. But without the resolve to reach out to each other and look for the good that lies buried within all of us, the substance of things hoped for in the evidence of things unseen, the honest effort of will and basic decency, we might as well just spit into the wind.
We have to hope we can learn from our mistakes and accept the change that needs to come.
How far will we get in our sixty seconds' worth of distance run?
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7 comments:
oi vey, shut up already.
a little too wordy lately Mr. Wind, we understand you have a big vocabulary, like the previous commenter, we get it. enough please
The support from fans that the Penn jockeys gathered is well deserved. And, it leads me to hope that other fan-based support and/or boycotts can create much needed change.
Three cheers for the jockeys. Utter disgust for Gill, Eclipse award voters who honored him, and tracks that don't view safety as a priorty..
Anon/Jason-
I appreciate, what can be risibly considered, my style, is not for most. I don't pretend to seek accolades nor consulting work and I certainly don't think this lexical exercise is perused by more than a few brave souls, of whom, you, seemingly, comprise a considerable cohort.
That said, I don't work for either of you and your cogent editorial suggestions, while solicitous, are misapplied. You are free to not read.
I write this way, because in my house, if you said anything in three words when you could have used fifteen, you weren't trying hard enough. Because anything worth doing, is worth overdoing. I write this way because I like it. But ultimately, I write this way for the same reason anybody does anything.
To impress women...
Thanks for reading.
Your writing is poetic. Keep tilting at the windmill.
Duly impressed, and female.
Not your target gender, but definitely impressed. Your blog is a breath of fresh air indeed, Wind Gatherer.
You encourage those of us also brought up to eschew exercising economy of expression.
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