Pool_1

Someone with strength, blind dedication, and milk to deliver. That was enough to make him a complete human being. If God didn't like this - then what did God know? At least the tuberculosis bacillus had no philosophic agenda. A nation of tubercles, not men? No. Must we sacrifice some humanity for the general good of the plague? No. That couldn't wash. It didn't have to. It was just plague, brutal but honest killing plague. We can endure pure evil without the misrepresentations and die without anger. But all that foreign bull shit which would have you attribute greatness to bloodsucking dictators who depleted the essence of their populaces every bit as much as did the tubercle? Or, for that matter, our own local themes of idiocy in which greatness derived solely from the powerful men of unchecked capitalism? That angered many. Maybe to a degree it played at home, but it was simply so much more disease. Didn't anyone just count the bodies? Those mills destroyed so many for the enrichment of so few. They could melt you, choke you, and brutalize you. The mills could also deafen you. The noise. The inescapable noise. Death couldn't be so bad if it were quiet. Is it quiet? The children who survived the mills all shared a common trait as adults, an inexplicable reflex of imploring their own children to, "Please shut that noise down!", their children who all seemed to thrive on clamor. Do children seek what their parents were forced to endure? Whatever. But embryonic syncopations growing in the psyche of that muscular acid breathing milk lugging teenager concatenated into emanations of new and ever elaborating rhythms. He was becoming his destiny. He was becoming himself. He was Jazz Man. Somehow, he always was. Some way, he always will be. You just have to see through all the shit.