Phrembah (a potato-like mystery) (phrembah) wrote,
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
phrembah

There is no God and we are His prophets.

Is it just me or is that an incredibly profound statement?  Or what?

At least in context it is, I think.  It was spoken by a character in Cormac McCarthy's The Road, 280-odd pages of pure despair.  280-odd pages of not being able to figure out if the lucky ones are the survivors or the dead.  What a weird book.

I bought it on the New York Times recommendation and couldn't get more than about forty pages into it because I kept projecting myself into the protagonists roles and found it just too depressing.  Then somebody decided we should read it for the book group.  So I picked it up again, ready to trudge through it so I could discuss it.  I read it in two sittings.  I found it fascinating the second time around.  I just had to know what was at the end of all this despair.  A little less despair.  Maybe.

In real life, I think there is a God, but I also think that the more we think we know about God the less likely that God is to exist.  In essence we define God out of existence.  I listen to people go on about what God is and what God isn't and what God wants and what God doesn't want and who God likes and who God doesn't like and I look around at the universe that presumably we all live in and it just patently ain't so.  But there is Something that causes or allows or is existence and nobody I've ever talked to knows anything about That.  Not that they can explain to me anyway.

. . .


We took Ol' WJ out to the Young Eagles Fly In again today.  He'll be ten next week.  They seem to have one of these things within a week of his birthday each year, which is good 'cause he loves it.  This year his folks made it into a birthday party for him.  His buddies Dylan, Cody, Hunter and Octavian came along and we actually did the whole birthday party thing upstairs in the restaurant afterward.  I think a good time was had by all.

And yes, folks, it appears that the Brandon-Heather generation has given way to the Dylan-Cody-Hunter-Octavian-Dakota generation (Dakota is Cody's sister).  Octavian has no discernible nickname, he's just Octavian.  I like it, mostly.  I might live long enough to see Tim, Jim, Bob and Bill make a resurgence as unique-sounding names.
Tags: brain fart, compelling chronicle, profundity extraordinaire
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