The following "stream of something" is surely timeless. All that is necessary is to substitute East Timor or Chechnya (or whatever other geography lesson humanity is currently learning) for Novi Sad.


After darkness claimed the day, the sleek dinosaurian/futuristic sharp-edged angular black bird, invisible to all viewing at all wavelengths, save for its presently blinking navigation lights soon to be doused, lifted off the unlit runway and raced to cruising altitude, piloted by its single unquestionably courageous, highly-trained, democracy-defending and promoting professional hired killer, then sped silently out of all but scrambled radio contact toward Novi Sad, assisted only by myriad man-made earth-circulating global positioning satellites and their electronically emitting messages intimately intercoursing with another myriad maze of softly lit red and green cockpit dials, meters and other measuring instruments which were sensing the vital signs, signals and well-being of the living, breathing, death-defying, death-inflicting man-machine.

Meanwhile, Number 10 had just faked out his opponent, twisted around and scored another basket for the home team in the 8 thru 10 year olds basketball game being played in the well lit, noisy gym crammed with shouting kids and their parents, who were boisterously and proudly urging on one or the other or both sides with cheers of encouragement tempered with thoughts that it's not really too important who wins but how one plays the game and learning good sportsmanship and determination that counts, even though there was only a minute twelve seconds left in the game and the home team was behind by three points, notwithstanding the fact they had gone into the game as hands-down favorites in this crucial playoff series.

Meanwhile, the tired but determined office clerk, who knew more than her foul-breathed, broad-butted boss whose wife doesn't understand him and who again today managed to corner her in the tiny supply room where Xerox copies and obnoxious propositions were daily made, had just arrived home at her small (except for the rent) apartment and logged on to the no-front-load, trade-now, pay-later wwwdotgloriouscapitalismdotcom online with her ancient IIci (she was a Mac enthusiast) but new 56 kbps modem in a desperate attempt to get rich quick, along with everyone else trying to thumb their noses at the sacred work ethic by letting their money work for them, and get the hell out of that damned office and every other one like it so that she could do what she wanted to do and was put on the planet to do, which was to paint.

Meanwhile, the impressionable grad student majoring in Early American history, even though it wasn't really American at all but rather only about the United States of America, had just finished and reluctantly closed his seventh biography of Tom Jefferson and, with the usual melancholy, felt the anguish of saying goodbye, yet again, to his by-now dear friend, the reluctant politician, who did the best he could with what he had been given to change the Course of human Events, and for it being called, by hypocrites, a hypocrite, even though having lost his beloved wife all too soon and later highly probably entering (according to recent almost incontestable scientific DNA analysis which nevertheless wasn't sufficiently convincing to prove a more recent and more highly probable event regarding the slitting of two throats) into another loving relationship with the legally forbidden fruit and half sister of his first love to whom he had promised on her deathbed that he would not marry again, among other things providing a meaningful metaphor as the actual Father of the Country, a fact already starting to be celebrated during Family Reunions at Monticello, when not redesigning, yet again, his also beloved home on the hill, and picked up his fifth biography of the Sage of Quincy, the Northern Pole of the American Revolution, determined to understand what really happened way back then over 200 years ago when that Grand Experiment in the very limited, at the time, but potentially all-inclusive, democracy was begun.

Meanwhile, out ran the 16 year old punk puke from the corner convenience store, wearing bewildered eyes, with a still smoking shorty pistol in his hand and the words "Scum Planet Sucks" artistically tattooed in a circle on the same hand, having just shot and, he hoped, killed that worthless old woman, so loved by the hood folks, who dissed him by asking for an ID before she could or would sell him a six-pack and dissed him some more for not hurrying fast enough when he told her to give him all the money in the cash register, even though there wasn't much there and all that was was needed to help pay for her daughter's college tuition because she was determined to help her daughter escape the grinding poverty of the hood which had created the punk puke whose all-too-young grandfather was killed in that obscene war (which followed all the other wars that followed the war to end all wars) in Nam just after his father was born who in turn was killed all-too-soon by a cop determined to extinguish a mini-riot of rampaging youths just after the punk puke was born whose mother had been on welfare ever since, not corporate but niggardly (a word which, understandably or incomprehensibly, seems to get some folks bent out of shape even though it is a perfectly good word with an inidual meaning, identity and root in no way referring to anybody or group of people but rather simply a concept -- thoughtless political correctness be damned), which seems to some extent to help explain the punk puke's actions to some damned fool liberal folks but doesn't justify his actions at all, according to some damned fool conservative folks.

Meanwhile, the young astrophysicist astronomer looked incredulously awestruck at the computer-enhanced image on his computer monitor screen that was displaying the latest download from Hubble and saw yet another spectacular demonstration of the Good, the True and the Beautiful in the universe, which some folks lump together and call God, others merely call God's handiwork while he himself simply preferred to stare at in rapt silence and appreciation of the fact that his molecules were momentarily arranged in such a miraculous and magnificent manner that he was conscious and capable of enjoying such a beautiful spectacle while with tearing eyes humbly acknowledging he knew next to nothing, compared to all there is to know.

Meanwhile, the ever-so-slightly oblate Earth continued to spin on its ever-so-slightly precessing axis, giving the misleading illusion to literally billions of believing resident humans that the sun actually rises and sets each day in its orbit about the planet, because they can plainly see that it does with their very own eyes, except when it is raining or just cloudy, though they claim it does even then too because of their faith in the repeatable nature of nature, in spite of the fact that some Church had, a couple of years ago, finally forgiven Galileo Galilei for his heretical attempt, a few centuries ago, to try to understand and explain this glorious creation of God.

1999 by Robley E. George

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