#97: And Attitude Can Be Es-Chewed (Pessimism)

And So You Take Another Breath
Of Day, And Fight Off Certain Death,
Surviving As You're Able . . .
Escaping Fates That Call Macbeth,
And He Who'd Take That Twentieth
Cookie From The Table . . .
Or:
Your Actions Are As Hollow
As Anything You Swallow.

It was almost like we'd gotten back
inside the Buggy, and
then lifted off, and flown away,
and found another land.

But the cauldron was still bubbling as
our feet had finally lit,
now that we had circled to
the far side of the pit.

And, with no way for us to know
what horror we might find,
we did inhale again, and let
aromas fill our mind.

Jo-Mima let a terrible scream,
while I began to cry.
"I cannot face a moment more,
it's time for me to die."

I heard me utter words like those,
and heard Jo-Mima wail.
I forced my head up, to look upon
a vulture's bobbing tail.

In a final, survival gasp of nerve,
I pushed up to my feet.
I grabbed Jo-Mima's collar and
we looked for our retreat.

People crouched on bended knees,
their heads held in their hands.
They were sobbing uncontrollably,
for broken dreams and plans.

We crawled and stumbled, and poured our guts,
without and ounce to spare,
passing broken gates and paths,
and signs of more despair.

Now looking back, I realize that
we mostly traveled blind,
moving toward . . . we knew not what,
but leaving this behind.

As if the traveler's saints might have
some mercy on our fate,
we chanced to see the Buggy parked
beyond an exit gate.

We pulled each other 'til we dropped
on just the other side.
I couldn't move another step,
no matter how I tried.

Then all at once, the rushing of
emotional release,
swept through our bodies, and we felt
a very welcome peace.

Some minutes passed, and Jo and I
finally sat upright,
"That was pretty close," he said,
"to the ultimate 'good night'."

The Carriage rested quietly.
We clearly were not done,
but satisfied that we were safe,
we stood and looked around.

We discovered that we'd hauled ourselves
back up on the hill . . .
from which we saw the circle that
we'd traced within this drill.

The tower and the gardens, and
the cauldron and beyond . . .
it all turned 'round and ended at
the hilltop we were on.

"It looks as though we've followed all
the pathways we were sent,
but I'll be damned if I can tell
what any of it meant."

"You don't suppose," Jo-Mima broke
his silence, asking me,
"that we were drugged when we inhaled
that cauldron's lethal tea?"

We pivoted when we both heard
the Buggy's engine gun . . .
but it settled back to silence, and
did not begin to run.

"Okay, a cigarette," I joked,
"but you get no cigar!
So, let's start figuring why the hell
we're standing where we are."

"I've got a memory," Jo-Mima said,
"for a moment I felt strong,
and then we walked some further steps,
and everything went wrong.

What if it's the State of mood?"
I listened as Jo mused,
"if so, you wouldn't think I'd feel
so utterly confused.

For a while, there, I was feeling up . . .
so optimistically . . .
nothing bad or evil was
going got bother me!"

At that the Buggy choked to life,
but did not fully crank . . .
but enough to tell us Jo-Mima might
be the dude to thank!

"Enough's enough!" the whole ground shook,
as then we heard the Voice
deciding it was time to guide
his favorite wind-up toys.

"Maybe I'm just merciful . . .
or maybe I'm just bored,
but again Jo-Mima's close enough
to earn you this reward.

And, yes, I'll give you credit
'cause the message this State
is not without its challenges.
Most humans never rate.

Still, I'm disappointed that
after you'd survived,
you failed to draw conclusions from
what's clearly so contrived.

Of course, in fact, you just went through
two wholly different States . . .
the Optim- and the Pessim-
are the isms you relate.

And though you often see those two
as little more than mood,
they are, in fact, the basis for
so much of what you do.

Men do what they think they can,
and fail at thoughts of can't.
No greater seed than mood, can man,
within his own heart, plant.

The irony that will come to play
is man will often not
generate the mood he needs,
though he might know he ought.

A brew of a thousand chemicals,
in subtleties so slight,
that thousands go unnoticed, but
they're governing his plight.

His oatmeal was too milky, or,
her coffee was too rich . . .
and thus, the world will now defeat
that wimp and crying bitch.

With an extra pad of butter, or,
a tincture less of salt,
and I can bring an empire's rise
just skidding to a halt.

And though this is not fitness, nor,
the confidence of mind,
both those States are neighbors, and
are allies of a kind.

The lesson that you take with you
as, now, you leave this place,
is chemistry, as much as soul,
predicts your gift of grace."

"What?" I asked, incredulous,
"You're saying we'd delete
all we've learned so far, because
of what we chance to eat?"

"Bo, you might be stupid, but,
at least you catch a part
of messages, regardless that,
you rarely get the heart.

Of course, you count what you have learned
within this latest truth . . .
but even Earth acquits the sin
that's caused by Baby Ruth.

But, make no more of canons here
than you might anywhere . . .
no one lesson answers all
the questions life will bare.

But as you count on confidence,
and absence of despair,
to help you meet the challenge of
the life you live out there . . .

remember that the guts you think
you've welled up from within,
may only be a piece of meat,
or last night's glass of gin.

And, get to know the causes of
your moods, and you'll begin
to get more done, as you'll become
chemically better men."