It was good, as George
put it seated on his throne, that the moon rises in the east and sets
in the west. In fact, he was happy to surmise, it so happens that
the sun follows this pattern also. And when he was out and about,
away from the lights of his town which allowed the conspirators to
follow him on his nightly missions, he felt the whole cosmos wheeling
around him, those stars far beyond who never lost their places year
after year, on this great nightly rotation always from east to west.
Once when he had climbed down a well to hide from his neighbour's
dog, he had watched with wonder for hours as stars moved from east to
west across the tiny opening far above, in the middle of the
afternoon. Somehow this land, this earth was anchored in the sea of
space and all remained constant. In a land of conspirators and
prejudiced dogs, it was something to hold onto.
George's mind had an
anchor too, somewhere behind his eyes. It made little matter how the
conspirators tormented him or how the dogs would sneak up and bark
the bee jeebies out of him, his immutable anxiety always remained
rooted there, anchored in the back of his skull. Even in the times
of calm when he could scorn the invasive forces with succulent
tribulations from the safety of his throne, he would watch the
visions circle around inside his head, always from east to west.
There had been a time
long ago when as a young lad George had felt a kinship with his
mates, as if they were all on the lake each sailing their little
craft, watching out for one another in the stormy world of adult
rationality. They would throw their anchors out together in the
shelter of a little bay, away from the winds of discipline and float
freely together entertaining the warming sun. But life turned from
east to west also, and as the sun got higher on his days his mates
had become conspirators, many had dogs, and they had turned their
quest to power and prestige, their dogs remorseless in these
undertakings. And so George had departed the world of commerce to
establish his own private castle, nondescript as it was, with his
throne facing west so he could see what lay in store. Not that it
worked.
There was a time when
he had wandered off and lost himself for several years, ending up
with a hornswoggle carved from a stump. He had even found a mate and
made an attempt at commerce, carving little hornswoggles for sale on
that avenue which cut north and south, a latitude in the longitude of
life. He still had his hornswoggle, seated in the midst of his
castle, his cat was old and rather hairless, and his mate had
abdicated her throne for some fool with a dog, a dog who had lifted
his leg on his hornswoggle. He had retreated from the thrills of
commerce back to vantages of misanthropy, them and their dogs.
George had thought long
and hard on egalitarianism which evolution had endowed upon humans.
It was doubtfully doubt which gave us the capacity to respect the
views of others, a doubt in our own beliefs, so he remained a little
apprehensive of the moon rising in the east and setting in the west
just so he would not be too prejudiced. That way he could smile and
say hello to everyone he met when he was out and about, even their
dogs, though the response was seldom reciprocated. This even-handed
approach to life was far from the dominant quality in most humans and
their institutions he found. Dominance and conspiracy seemed to play
a crucial role in humanity's day to day functioning, policing and
punishment typically administered by the most dominant individuals.
Somehow the humour of most situations was lost upon these stewards of
the establishment and their dogs. It was good to have an anchor to
hold onto, even though he must view it with a degree of incertitude.
So George continued
with his life, attempting to thwart the conspirators with dispassion
on his nightly missions, and took to carrying a bag of dog biscuits
to tempt impartiality in their dogs. Sometimes it worked, and he
could peacefully watch the cosmos circle above him, from east to
west.
