Flesh of Children…Revision

This is a revision of a previously posted item. Please comment!

 

Flesh of Children Carnival

 

Not much difference that I can see,

Matters of a dark degree, 

Through seemingly endless

Chronologies

Pedophilia’s theology

Is closeted by The Holy See.

Children, abused, need therapy.

And yet,

Another exploding trauma 

Confounds our youth-filled drama:

Gatling Gun deaths of lovers, 

Our Sisters, their brothers,

A Best Friend Forever 

(The measure of infinity,

Death was totally un-expected.)

This violent action tethered:

Kid’s safety 

To 

Automatically available weaponry.

 

Articulate children — the rifleman’s fear above all-

Have marched in DC, made the Clarion Call.

Have we, 

Through these student measures,

Finally escaped the pressures 

Of those NRA confessors?

Bullies in gun bureaucracies 

Lose allegiance of constituencies

Who uphold common

         Decencies.

 

NRA advocates — cranky old gents

And pretty spokesmodels 

Are the Bishops and Cardinals

Sweeping violent abuse into some other parish.

Ignore that child’s gaping, giant wound, 

This is not the time to heal such matters.

 

Call student dissent a ‘Carnival? 

Keep threats of carnage fed –

Carnivorous language chews up a student’s head.

With recollected images: 

fleshy,

red

Of that cute kid from the Bio lab

who’s been shot dead;

More fear of the boogey man, 

The pedophile priest, 

This flesh of children carnival upon which adults feast. 

 

Grown-ups create bureaucracies

That force alter boys down to their knees.

A class sweats for hours in cramped closets

Imagining fearful, awful horrors

Of dudes 

a wall away 

Bleeding in the corridors. 

 

We’ve lost our own morality,

It is gone from church and state.

What?

Trust Kids to guide our fate?

 

Well,

David Hogg is standing up,

And so is Ms Tarr

Young Mr. Wind gives a good speech

and Emma González is 

exceedingly,

tumultuously, 

silent.

They impress us with capacities

We’d hope to see in grown-ups, pa-lease?

 

Virtues, fearless, marched that day.

Apostasy was ripe. 

Our old hypocrisies

Are just plain trite. 

Kids stole authority 

From morality 

And showed us to the light.

 

Youth,

Humanity’s moral incarnation,

Go forward!

Our destinies we gladly consign to you.

 

 

I, Myself, Me = Depression?

How did you know? 

It’s, apparently, self-evident from the book I am currently writing that I have depression. This new revelation comes from headlines across the internet: that one can be diagnosed with depression through a computer analysis of their writing. It’s a bit scary. I don’t care about people knowing I’m mentally ill, though there are many anxiety filled bloggers who would keep a detail like that secret. Look at all the psychiatrists and psychologists and busybodies trying to assign our president some sort of mental illness even though he never writes (or reads). What if David Brooks was diagnosed with pomposity or something like that? Wait a minute, we judge writers all the time. Folks who write are judged by what they write. Right? 

This is different. An App is required to analyze the usage of certain words that then provide a medical diagnosis. This is not an opinion generated by a machine, it’s a fairly accurate probability of the author having depression. The use of pronouns is key to the diagnosis. The more self-referential, the more likely one is to be depressed, somehow. The use of sad, depressing words is less relevant than the absence of pronouns like ‘they’ or ‘them’ or ‘she,’ and the prevalence of ‘I’ ‘myself’ and ‘me’. Upon learning this, now and henceforth, I myself me the royal ‘we’ shall make an effort to reduce the number of self-referential pronouns in my this blog. 

At the beginning of the 3/4 finished book a promise was made that: the reader would not learn any personal details about the author. This was obviously a lie on someone’s part about the intent of the author who shall now have to be identified without the use of certain incriminating pronouns. This is going to be a challenge for the author since the joke of the plot is that the author can’t seem to discuss any topic without making it personal. Although the more he thinks about it the more foolish he feels for going to such elaborate lengths to avoid imbuing his book with evidence to what he has already confessed – being depressed. He shouldn’t be so concerned about what a computer may someday analyze; editing out pronouns will only disprove what he has already confessed!

You know what’s funny about this is, that I actually exported my current draft of the book into other software to do a usage count of pronouns. So far, out of 25,000 words ‘I’ has been used 365 times, ‘my’ 125 times and ‘me’ 62 times. If I had used ‘I’ twice was much would I need more Prozac? ‘She’ was used only 25 times, a bit sexist don’t you think? Write what you know, they say.  

During my time in academia it became clear that avoiding self-referential elements in emails and communications with students and administrators alike helped temper the reaction to critical or undesired comments. This was the opposite of an unnamed colleague of mine; who could be described by saying, “A conversation with him was always a conversation about him no matter the topic.” By editing my ‘self’ out of the conversation there was nothing to make make the recipient angry with me personally. The message could be communicated clearly and live or die without the baggage of personalities and emotionality. It could still be written with compassion and sympathy while staying focused upon the intended message to the reader. I guess my professional documents would not provide evidence of depression. One wonders just how reliable this new technology is? 

Flesh of Children Carnival

Church and the NRA

Not much difference that I can see,

It’s a matter of degree. 

Pedophilia is known to be

Hidden by The Holy See.

Children, abused, need therapy.

 

Unfortunately, this other trauma 

Compounds our current youthful drama:

The Gatling Gun deaths of lovers, 

Sisters, brothers,

And Best Friends Forever; 

Sadly, 

Forever is not as long as expected.

Violence tethers schoolhouse safety 

to automatically available 

weaponry.

 

Have we, 

Through these student’s measures,

Finally escaped the pressures 

Of those NRA confessors?

The bullies of gun bureaucracies 

Are losing the allegiance of common decencies.

Their PR advocates – cranky old gents

and pretty spokesmodels are the Bishops and Cardinals

sweeping violent abuse into some other parish.

Ignore that child’s gaping, giant wound, 

this is not the time to discuss such matters.’

 

Articulate children – the rifleman’s fear above all –

Have marched in DC, and made the Clarion call.

Counter student dissent as a ‘Carnival? 

Threaten with carnage, so kids fears are fed.

This carnivorous language chews into student’s heads

Recollected images of flesh so red,

Of the BFF who’s been shot dead;

More fear of the boogey man, 

The pedophile priest, 

The flesh of children carnival upon which adults feast. 

 

The adult world’s full of bureaucracies,

That force Alter boys down to their knees.

A class sweats for hours in cramped closets

imagining awful, fearful horrors

of those other kids, bleeding in the corridors. 

 

But David Hogg is standing up,

And so is Ms Tarr

Young Mr. Wind gives a good speech

and Emma González is tumultuously silent.

They impress us with capacities

We’d hope to see in grown-ups, please?

 

Adults, the time has come

To let the children guide us.

We’ve lost our own morality,

It is gone in church and state.

We taught them how to do it wrong, 

They’ve learned from our mistake,

It’s why they’re strong enough to build 

New, youthful, rectitudes. 

Virtues, fearless, marched that day

 Told truth to failures, now lead the way.

 

Copyright Bill O’Donnell 2018

odgraphix@icloud.com