The Parable of the Seat Belts

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, why did a group of congressmen just vote against The Violence Against Women Act when they wanted it to pass?”

Josh spoke thus:

A state trooper was chastising a driver for not wearing a seat belt.

“You can’t tell me I have to wear a seat belt,” the driver told the state trooper.

“I’m not telling you that you have to wear a seat belt,” the state trooper told the driver, “I’m telling you that people who don’t wear seat belts get citations.”

“You can’t make me pay the ticket,” the driver told the state trooper.

“I don’t have to make you pay the ticket,” the state trooper said, “When you get a ticket, you can choose to pay the fine, or you can choose to contest the charge in court.”

“You can’t make me go to court,” the driver said.

“I don’t have to make you go to court,” the state trooper said, “When you get a ticket, you can choose to pay the fine, or you can choose to contest the charge in court.”

“If I go to court, I’ll demand a trial,” the driver said.

“That’s your right,” the state trooper said.

“If I go to trial, I’ll tie up the court system,” the driver said.

“That’s a possibility,” the state trooper said.

“Do you want me to go to trial?” the driver asked.

“I don’t want you to go to trial,” the state trooper said.

“So you don’t want me to go to court and contest the charge?” the driver asked.

“I want you to wear a seat belt,” the state trooper said.

“I don’t have a seat belt,” the driver said, “I took it out.”

“You removed the seatbelt from your vehicle?” the state trooper asked.

“And I took out the air bags too,” the driver said.

“This vehicle doesn’t have air bags,” the state trooper said.

“They should go to jail for building a car without air bags,” the driver said.

“Why did you remove the seat belts from the vehicle?” the state trooper asked.

“Because I don’t want to be told I have to have air bags and I don’t want to be told I have to wear a seat belt,” the driver said.

“Well you do have to be told it’s past your bedtime,” the state trooper said.

“One more lap around the driveway?” the driver pleaded.

The state trooper frowned and replied, “One more lap, but don’t tell your mother.”

The driver pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor, and the tiny electric sports car began its slow crawl around the driveway.

The Parable of the Consort

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, politicians have gerrymandered themselves into permanent reelection, the governor of Michigan has given himself the power to dissolve local governments without the consent of the governed--twice--and the Supreme Court appears prepared to gut the Voting Rights Act: what’s happening to the idea of America as a democracy?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was a legislator and magistrate whose consort was legal.  

“He’s grandfathered in,” the legislator and magistrate told anyone who would listen.  It was the legislator and magistrate’s favorite quip.

The legislator and magistrate had made consorts illegal because the legislator and magistrate thought them wicked.  The legislator and magistrate was optimistic that somewhere in the legislator and magistrate’s holy book there was a moratorium on consorts.

The legislator and magistrate had made consorts illegal because the legislator and magistrate believed in the sanctity of the marriage bond.  Still hoping to marry some day, the legislator and magistrate was confident that life-long monogamy was the foundation of the rule of law.  The legislator and magistrate maintained that consorts were the greatest threat to monogamy.

The legislator and magistrate had made consorts illegal because the legislator and magistrate believed in the purity of the nuclear family.  A ward of the state from birth, the legislator and magistrate knew better than most the indelible moral foundation provided by the nuclear family.  The legislator and magistrate particularly distrusted orphans.

The legislator and magistrate had the local bordello torn down, its practitioners whipped, its customers sanctioned, its neighborhood condemned.

“Silence is consent,” the legislator and magistrate said in condemning the neighborhood, “You allowed your neighbor to practice wickedness without protest.  You are culpable.”

“Silence is consent,” the legislator and magistrate said in conclusion when no one protested the judgment.  None could protest.  The legislator and magistrate had placed a moratorium on dissent.

“He’s grandfathered in,” the legislator and magistrate made a point of saying into the silence that dared not dissent.

One day the consort of the legislator and magistrate left the company of the legislator and magistrate.  The consort of the legislator and magistrate left town.

“You can not leave me,” the legislator and magistrate said to the consort of the legislator and magistrate as the consort of the legislator and magistrate walked out of town, “I have put a moratorium on your leaving me.”

The consort of the legislator and magistrate replied, “I’m grandfathered in.”

The Parable of the Marionettes

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, on Victor Hugo’s birthday, can you discuss the relationship between highly political fiction, like Victor Hugo’s, and propaganda?”

Josh spoke thus:

A maker of marionettes was sharing a bottle of wine with his oldest friend and oldest customer, a puppeteer.

“Do you remember the streets of Montmartre?” the maker of marionettes asked the puppeteer.

“Every night, I construct Montmartre in my mind before I go to bed,” the puppeteer said.

“I am constructing Montmartre now,” the maker of marionettes said.

“A model?” the puppeteer asked.

“A stage,” the maker of marionettes said.

“A stage for whom?” the puppeteer asked.

“A stage for you,” the maker of marionettes said.

“For me?” the puppeteer asked, “For whom would I perform?”

“For me,” the maker of marionettes said.

The maker of marionettes and the puppeteer sipped their wine and watched the passers-by.

“I perform in a booth,” the puppeteer said.

“I have built a booth,” the maker of marionettes said, “I have placed it on the Rue Saint-Vincent.”

“The Rue Saint-Vincent!” the puppeteer said, “The Rue Saint-Vincent is a tourist trap.  No artists perform there.”

“You performed there,” the maker of marionettes said.

“For tourists,” the puppeteer said.

“And now you are the tourist,” the maker of marionettes said with a smile.

The maker of marionettes and the puppeteer sipped their wine and watched the passers-by.

“Montmartre is thousands of miles away,” the puppeteer said, “We are in Los Angeles.”

“My Montmartre is much nearer than that,” the maker of marionettes said.

“So where is this Montmartre of yours?” the puppeteer asked.

“It’s in my pocket,” the maker of marionettes said.

“Look at you, the modern man!” the puppeteer laughed, “And how will I perform in this Montmartre in your pocket?”

The maker of marionettes drew a smartphone out of his jacket.  He showed it to the puppeteer.

“It’s an app,” the maker of marionettes said.  He showed the puppeteer the virtual Montmartre, the virtual booth, the virtual puppets, the virtual puppeteer.  The virtual puppeteer looked unsurprisingly similar to the puppeteer holding the smartphone.

“You tip it like this, and it pulls the strings,” the maker of marionettes said, “And the strings pull the legs.”

“I know how a puppet works,” the puppeteer said.

“This is a virtual puppet,” the maker of marionettes said, “And the puppeteer is virtual.”

“All puppeteers are virtual,” the puppeteer said.

The Parable of the Wrong Apples

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how can we back the rebels in Syria when their motives are so unreliable?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was an apple tree that grew the wrong apples.

Nobody blamed the apple tree.  The apple tree was an apple tree.  The apple tree grew apples.  

“That’s what apple trees do, they grow apples,” the apple grower said about apple trees.  And growing apples was what apple trees did.

“If you go to the Caucasus region of Eurasia,” the apple grower said, “You can see where apples first grew.  Not these apples, of course.”

By “these apples,” the apple grower meant Golden Delicious apples.  Golden Delicious apples, the apple grower said, were first grown in West Virginia.

“The apple,” the apple grower said, “Is an immigrant.”

The Golden Delicious, strictly speaking, wasn’t an immigrant, having been first grown in West Virginia, but it came from immigrant stock.  All apples were from immigrant stock.

The farmer resisted making a joke about green cards for apples.

Although the apple tree grew the wrong apples, the apple grower had let the tree grow as it grew.  He called the apple tree his free range tree.

The apple grower knew that the apple tree could grow the right apples, if the apple grower wanted it to.  He was an apple grower.  Apple growers knew that grafting the correct apple branches onto an apple tree was how you got an apple tree to grow the correct apples.

The apple grower resisted making a joke about racial purity.

The apple grower just thought that among his Golden Delicious apple trees there should be a free range tree.

The apple grower’s sibling, an accountant, saw this as wasteful.  The apple grower’s other sibling, an accountant, saw this as messy.  The apple grower’s third sibling, an accountant, saw this as lessening the apple grower’s potential.

“There are no Golden Delicious apples grown in the Caucasus region of Eurasia,” the apple grower said. 

“Your problem is that you think of apples as art, not as a business,” the apple grower’s sibling said.

“Your problem is that you see apples as beautiful, not as profitable,” the apple grower’s second sibling said.

“Your problem is that to you the Caucasus region of Eurasia is one great free range tree,” the apple grower's third sibling said.

“And the free range tree is your favorite,” the apple grower’s three siblings said together.

“And that is why you will all invest in me,” the apple grower said.

The apple grower’s three siblings replied, “Precisely.”

The Parable of the Performer

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, are the Oscars still the Olympus of acting?”

Josh spoke thus:

A performer was receiving his justified attentions.

“God bless you, God bless you all!” the performer called out to the crowd.  

The crowd rumbled expectantly.

“I trust it is not heresy to my critics among you to compare my life’s work to a fire burning in the hearth of my heart, a beacon I wish I could always share with you all.”

The crowd did not comprehend the joke.  The performer persisted with the allusion.

“Life is like a flame,” the performer said to the crowd, “Do you get that?  I’m saying that my life is like a flame.”

Someone in the crowd shouted, “Light the flame!”

“Just so!  Just so!” the performer said, “We must all light the flame!  Life is a flame that must be lit!  We must light that flame!”

“Burn!” another member of the crowd shouted.

“Yes!  Yes!  We all must burn!” the performer said, “That is what I’m saying!  We all must burn, and we all do burn!  You all will burn!”

“Not like you!” someone else shouted.

“Perhaps like me, perhaps not like me,” the performer said, “What matters isn’t how we burn, it’s that we burn brightly, as brightly as we can.”

“How bright can you burn?” a crowd member asked.

“How brightly can any of us burn?” the performer replied, “And can that burning last?  Should we burn in a flash, or should we sustain?  For like a fire, we consume when we burn, and the flame consumes us!”

“Consumes you, maybe,” a crowd member quipped.  This joke the crowd did understand.  The crowd voiced its approval.

“Yes, consumes me!  Consumes me!” the performer agreed, “I consume life and life consumes me!  I am the fire, I am the fuel for the fire!  I consume myself!  I create!  I destroy!  I am a beacon!  I am the flame of truth!  Is that heresy?  If that is heresy, then I burn in heresy!”

A man in black stood out from the crowd.

“You want to burn?” the man in black asked the performer, “I can help you burn.”

The crowd enjoyed this joke most of all.  The performer gave a wry smile.

“Yes you can, my friend,” the performer said, “And you can pray that my flame is penance for us all.”

The man in black turned to look at the bishop overseeing the execution.  The bishop nodded his assent.

The executioner set flame to tinder.

The Parable of the Brother and the Sister

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, how amazing is it that a woman qualified fastest for the Daytona 500?”

Josh spoke thus:

A father watched as his daughter was bullying her brother.  

The daughter pushed her brother to the ground, and when he protested, she said, “Don’t be such a little girl!”

When the boy looked to his father for support, the father said, “Don’t be such a little girl!”

In the kitchen, the brother took an ice pop out of the freezer.  The daughter grabbed the ice pop from his hand and began to eat it.  When he protested, she said, “Don’t be such a little girl!”

When the brother looked to his father for support, the father said, “Don’t be such a little girl!”

In the sitting room, the brother sat on the couch, grabbed the remote control and turned on the television to watch a documentary about the New York City Ballet.

The sister grabbed the remote control from her brother, shoved him off the couch, looked at the television and changed the channel, saying, “Ballet?  Don’t be such a little girl!”  

When the brother looked to his father for support, the father said, “Don’t be such a little girl!”

The brother approached his father and said to him, “Father, when my sister pushed me to the ground and I protested, you told me not to be such a little girl.  When my sister took the ice pop out of my hand, and I protested, you told me not to be such a little girl.  And when my sister grabbed the remote control from my hand, shoved me from the couch and changed the channel, you said, ‘Don’t be such a little girl.’  Why each time did you not say something to my sister?”

“When my sister pushed me to the ground,” the brother asked, “Why didn’t you tell my sister that big girls don’t push others down to the ground?”

“When my sister took the ice pop from my hand,” the brother asked, “Why didn’t you tell my sister that big girls don’t take ice pops from others?”

“When my sister grabbed the remote control, shoved me off the couch, and changed the channel,” the brother asked, “Why didn’t you tell my sister that big girls don’t grab the remote control from others, don’t shove others off the couch and don’t change the channel when others are watching a documentary about the New York City Ballet?”

“Why was I a little girl and she a big girl when she childishly pushed me to the ground?” the brother asked, “Why was I a little girl and she a big girl when she childishly took my ice pop?  Why was I a little girl and she a big girl when she childishly grabbed the remote control, shoved me off the couch and changed the channel?”

“Why did you support her in her childishness?” the brother asked.

The father replied, “Your sister frightens me.”

The Parable of the Rearview Mirror

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, with all that’s going on with the budget crisis, and drones and the double-dip European recession, why are certain people so focussed on one press release given about a terrorist attack in North Africa months ago?”

Josh spoke thus:

A driver was talking to a police officer.  He was describing what he had seen.

“It was frightening,” the driver said, “You really have to wonder sometimes what people are thinking.”
“What were you thinking?” the policeman asked the driver.

“I was thinking, what is this guy thinking?” the driver said, “He had to be texting or something.”

“He was texting while changing lanes?” the policeman asked.

“Or something,” the driver said, “He certainly wasn’t looking where he was going.”

“Like you weren’t looking where you were going?” the policeman asked.

“I was looking in my rearview mirror,” the driver said, “And this guy came barreling off the on-ramp, like a drag racer.  He didn’t slow to merge with traffic at all.  He had to have seen that car right next to him.”

“You saw that car next to him?” the policeman asked.

“Everyone saw that car next to him,” the driver said, “I was looking in my rearview mirror, and even I saw that car next to him.”

“In your rearview mirror,” the policeman said, “You were watching all this develop in your rearview mirror.”

“In my rearview mirror,” the driver said, “And even I could see there was a car right next to him.  How he missed that car, I’ll never know.  And how he missed the car in the next lane is a bigger mystery.”

“For how long were you looking in your rearview mirror?” the policeman asked.

“Long enough to see this guy force his way in front of the first car when he came off the on-ramp,” the driver said, “And then cut off the guy in the next lane as well, like he owned the road.”

“You watched him merge unsafely in front of one car, and then cut off another driver, all in your rearview mirror?” the policeman asked.

“And more!” the driver said, “Then he swerved back into the righthand lane, cool as you like.  Just because he owns a BMW M3, he thinks he can go anywhere he wants!”

“You saw what kind of car it was?” the policeman asked.

“You can’t miss a 2004 M3,” the driver said, “It’s got that distinctive low chin in front.  The diffuser, it’s called.”

“I know what it’s called,” the policeman said, “What I don’t know is why you were looking there the whole time, instead of paying attention to what you were doing.”

“I saw it all in my rearview mirror,” the driver said.

“Do you know how fast you were going when you passed me?” the policeman asked.

The driver replied, “I was looking in my rearview mirror.”

“You saw all that while going ninety miles an hour?  Do you know you were going ninety miles a hour?” the policeman asked, “You know that’s why I pulled you over, right?”

The driver replied, “I was looking in my rearview mirror.”

The Parable of the Famous Burglar

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, what does a thief do with fifty-million dollars’ worth of diamonds?”

Josh spoke thus:

A famous burglar was standing on a South American beach, immune from extradition.  A government official who would not hand the famous burglar over to the European authorities stood next to the famous burglar.  They were sharing a sapphire sky, an emerald seascape and a dazzling quartz beach.

“It’s not all Cary Grant on Riviera rooftops,” the famous burglar told the government official.

“No giant pink diamonds, I suppose,” the government official said.

“These movie thieves,” the famous burglar said, “They’re all in love with beautiful gems, with exquisite silver work, with brilliant, golden tiaras and bracelets.”

“Aren’t you?” the government official asked.

“That’s all Hollywood stuff, to excite the audience” the famous burglar said, “For me, it’s business.”

“You must, is it not, appreciate the value of what you take,” the government official said.

“I appreciate the dollar value,” the famous burglar said.

“So you never are tempted to keep, let us say, a watch, or a ring?” the government official asked, “For your wife, or for your girlfriend, or for your mistress--or for all three?”

The famous burglar and the government official shared this joke as they shared the approach of sunset.  The sun was now a ruby couched in amethyst clouds.  The sea was jade.

“Do you know how tricky a wife or a girlfriend or a mistress can be?” the famous burglar asked.

“I am a government official,” the government official said, “I am required to have all three.”

“I don’t like jewelry,” the famous burglar said.

“So why do you not instead take something else, something you want?” the government official asked.

“It’s too risky,” the famous burglar said, “The moment you want it, it controls you.”

“Like a wife, a girlfriend or a mistress,” the government official said.

“That’s why I don’t have one of them, either,” the famous burglar said.

“So why do you do it?” the government official asked, “It is not for the money only, surely?”

“I do it because I can,” the famous burglar said, “And being famous makes it harder, and making it harder makes it better.”

“That is why I loved it,” the government official said, “Because it was so difficult to take.”

“What did you take?” the famous burglar asked.

The government official smiled and swept his arm in a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc.

The stars in the sky glittered like diamonds.  The full moon shone like a silver platter.  In the halogen light, the beachfront resort glowed like gold. 

“But how can you fence it?” the famous burglar asked.

The government official heaved a sigh of helplessness and replied, “Alas, it controls me.”

The Parable of the Sleepless Man

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, at what point does 24-7 media reach diminishing returns?”

Josh spoke thus:

A man was sitting watching television, exhausted but unable to sleep.

The television offered the sleepless man memories.  Some of these memories were on compact disc.  Some of these memories were in books.  Some of these memories were die cast.  Some of these memories were limited-edition minted.

The man wanted these memories.

The television offered nostalgia in family dramas, in situation comedies, in hilarious, unscripted witticisms and stumbles.  There was nostalgia in song.  There was nostalgia in dress.  There was nostalgia in cookery, quackery and collectibles.

The man wanted this nostalgia.

What price was the man willing to pay? the television asked.  What was the value of childhood regained?  What was the cost of that once-familiar adolescent titillation?  How many installments were needed to reestablish the man’s unbounded sense of possibility, his absolute faith in potential, his unquestioning loyalty to tomorrow?

The man was willing to pay for faith.

And speaking of faith, the television sold faith too.  Faith in mankind and its ability to cure, to feed, to house, to educate.  Faith in the superhuman and its ability to forgive, to validate, to vindicate.  Faith in loans, faith in credit, faith in consolidated debt.

The television sold freedom. Freedom from pain, freedom from government, freedom from death, freedom from financial struggles.  Not freedom from taxes, funnily enough.

The television showed the man the healthy alternatives: exercise, burned calories, reduced fat and sugar.

The man wanted to be healthy.

The sleepless man saw sleep-inducing pillows, sleep-assuring mattresses, sleeping pills, sleeping clothes, sleeping partners--even marriage partners, on the phone, on-line, on offer.

The sleepless man saw sleep-denying drinks, sleep-defying pills, sleep-proof drama, comedy and headlines.  The drama, the comedy and the headlines were framed by slickly packaged memories.

The sleepless man wanted those memories.  Maybe those memories would let him sleep.

The sleepless man reached for his credit card.  The sleepless man bought memories.

The Parable of the Lawnmowers

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, the Sequester is only days away, are the cuts to government programs as draconian as they seem and will they harm the economy when they kick in?”

Josh spoke thus:

A man’s lawnmower had broken.  The man had just moved to the country from the city and knew little about lawnmowers.  He asked the only person he trusted for advice.  He asked his financial advisor.

“Where did you buy the lawnmower?” the financial advisor asked the man.

“It was given to me by a friend,” the man said.

“Well, there’s your problem,” the financial advisor said, “You’re using a borrowed lawnmower.”

“It’s not borrowed,” the man said, “My friend gave it to me.”

“Never use a borrowed lawnmower,” the financial advisor said.

The man decided to buy a lawnmower.  He bought a bright red rider lawnmower.  This new rider lawnmower also broke.

“Your problem is you bought a rider,” the man’s financial advisor said, “Rider lawnmowers are notoriously unreliable.”

The man bought a bright yellow hand-pushed lawnmower.  This lawnmower also broke.

“Your problem is you bought a power lawnmower,” the financial advisor told the man, “You should buy a push-powered lawnmower.”

“Do they even make push-powered lawnmowers anymore?” the man asked the financial advisor.

“They’re good for the environment,” the financial advisor said, “And they keep you in shape.”

The man wanted to be good to the environment, and the man wanted to stay in shape, so the man bought a bright green push-powered lawnmower.

The push-powered lawnmower also broke.

“How did you break a push-powered lawnmower?” the financial advisor asked the man.  The man had just moved to the country from the city and knew little about lawnmowers.  He didn’t know how he had broken his push-powered lawnmower.

“The problem is that you keep breaking lawnmowers,” the financial advisor said, “You need to use a scythe.”

“A scythe?” the man asked, “Like Death carries?”

“It will cut your grass,” the financial advisor said, “And it won’t break.

The man bought a scythe, and it did break.

“The problem isn’t the scythe,” the financial advisor said, “The problem is your lawn.  Are there many stones in your lawn?”

The man replied, “I don’t have a lawn, I have an Oriental rock garden.”

The Parable of the First-Time Voters

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, it’s Presidents Day.  Who was your favorite president?”

Josh spoke thus:

There was an ancient émigré who had never voted.  The émigré’s companion of numerous years, a native, had also never voted.

One day the ancient émigré said to his companion of numerous years, “It is a wonderful thing, to be able vote.”

The émigré’s companion replied, “How many people in how many countries have never had the opportunity to vote?”

The émigré and the émigré’s companion stood in the street watching a television through a shop window.  They could not hear the television, but they could see that soon the vote count would be complete.  Soon the result would be announced.

“Why have I never voted?” the émigré asked the émigré’s companion.

“I wasn’t aware that you could,” the émigré’s companion said.

“You can vote as well,” the émigré said, “It’s your right.”

“If it’s my right, why is it so difficult?,” the émigré’s companion asked.

“It is not so difficult,” the émigré said.

“I’m not signed up,” the émigré’s companion said.

“I’m not signed up either,” the émigré said.

“Perhaps it’s time we signed up,” the émigré’s companion said.

“I wonder how we sign up,” the émigré said.

“We can just walk in and sign up,” the émigré’s companion said.

“Then why have we never?” the émigré said.

“I feel silly,” the émigré’s companion said.

“We should sign up now,” the émigré said.

“It’s too late,” the émigré’s companion said.

“For this vote, it’s too late,” the émigré said, “But for the next vote, we’ll be ready.”

“So tomorrow, first thing, we’ll sign up?” the émigré’s companion asked.

“Tomorrow, first thing, we’ll sign up,” the émigré said.

The émigré and the émigré’s companion stood watching the television, unable to hear, but excited that they could see.

“Who would you have voted for” the émigré asked the émigré’s companion.

“I think the one with the dark hair,” the émigré’s companion said.

“I like her voice, but not her phrasing,” the émigré said.

“Well next week, when we have a phone,” you can call and vote for the bluesy blonde one you like so much,” the émigré’s companion said.

The émigré and the émigré’s companion both wondered at how long it had taken them to finally decide to get phone service.

The Parable of the Dilettante Anarchist

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, “Teacher, with the fragmentation of the music industry in the digital age, does the Album of the Year Grammy have any relevance anymore?”

Josh spoke thus:

A dilettante anarchist was watching his piano being tuned.  He was not musical himself, but he knew the importance of being well stocked.

Not being musical, the dilettante anarchist felt unqualified to ask the piano tuner, “Are you sure that’s the right note?”  

He had heard what he thought had been the beginnings of a scale, but there was a note that didn’t seem to fit.

“I always play the correct note,” the piano tuner said.

The dilettante anarchist had no reason to doubt the piano tuner.  After all, the piano tuner tuned pianos for a living.  It would be impossible to make a living by tuning pianos without an intimate knowledge of pianos and of tuning them.  Still, the dilettante anarchist was sure the note was out of sequence.

Perhaps the string hadn’t been tuned yet?  The piano tuner was in the act of tuning the piano.

“The string is perfectly tuned,” the piano tuner said.

The dilettante anarchist reminded himself that this was a well recommended, expensive piano tuner.

“Are you a cubist?” the dilettante anarchist asked the piano tuner.  Perhaps the note had been a joke.

“Cubism is painting,” the piano tuner said.

The dilettante anarchist laughed at himself.  Of course cubism was painting.

“Is it atonal?” the dilettante anarchist asked the piano tuner.

“Atonality is for amateurs,” the piano tuner said.

“And you are a professional,” the dilettante anarchist said. 

“Study my bill when I am done,” the piano tuner said.

The dilettante anarchist was confident that the piano tuner was no amateur.

“But I don’t understand that note,” the dilettante anarchist said.

“That’s because you are dilettante,” the piano tuner said.

“If I were not a dilettante, what would I understand?” the dilettante anarchist asked.

“If you were not a dilettante you would play that note yourself,” the piano tuner said.

“Because I am a dilettante, you must play that note for me,” the dilettante anarchist said.

The piano tuner played the note again.  The dilettante anarchist laughed because he understood.

“What is it that pleases you so much?” the piano tuner asked.

The dilettante anarchist replied, “Anarchy.”

The Parable of the Unbelievers

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, an asteroid was closer to the Earth than a weather satellite, and a meteor crashed into the Urals--is the Universe telling us something?”

Josh spoke thus:

A group of unbelievers was watching the sky.

“It can’t come,” the unbelievers told each other, “It is impossible.”

But it came, a giant fireball in the sky.  Then it was many fireballs, each as destructive as a drone strike.  The many fireballs spread out in trajectories that the unbelievers could not possibly predict.  

For the unbelievers, unpredicted destiny was retribution, but being unpredicted, it was unpredictable, and therefore its cause unknown.  Worse, its cause was unknowable.

It was a miracle, then, when the fireballs created craters of flame.  It was a miracle that a warehouse was gutted.  It was a miracle that a highway was split.  It was a miracle that a small wood was incinerated.  It was a miracle that a sports field was decimated.  There was miraculous noise, there was miraculous light, and there was miraculous shattered glass.

Miraculously, no people were killed.  Miraculously, no one was injured.  By some miracle, the area had been evacuated.  By some miracle, a group of believers had had the area evacuated.

The unbelievers feared the believers.  The believers, the unbelievers believed, did evil work.  The believers, the unbelievers believed, were deceivers.  The believers, the unbelievers believed, used trickery.  The believers, the unbelievers believed, were tricksters.

The unbelievers believed that the believers worshipped in temples of deception.  The unbelievers believed that the believers created architectures of dishonest geometry.  The unbelievers believed that the believers brewed poisons of untrustworthy alchemy.  The unbelievers believed that the believers believed they could master destiny.

The believers believed that the past stretched past the beginning of time.  The believers believed that the future was horizonless.  The believers believed that time was timeless, and that timelessness was constrained in time.

Now the believers had reached under their alter of trickery to auger a fireball.  

The fireball, the believers divined, would be many fireballs.  The many fireballs, the believers professed, would create craters of flame.   

A fireball would gut a warehouse.  A fireball would split a highway.  A fireball would incinerate a small wood.  A fireball would decimate a sports field.  There would be noise, there would be light, and there would be shattered glass.

“By what devilry can you know the unknown?” an unbeliever asked a believer.

The believer replied, “You do the math.”

The Parable of the Fugitive Lovers

Josh lives.  Josh walks.  Josh breathes.  Josh speaks. 

One day while teaching, Josh was asked, ”Teacher, the American experiment seems to be in a constant state of tension between the collective interest of the democratic majority and the liberty of the individual.  Can the two ever be reconciled?”

Josh spoke thus:

A man and a woman had fled and were hiding.

“You do not love me enough,” the woman told the man while they were hiding.

“This is not the time for that discussion,” the man said.

“So you admit it,” the woman said, “You don’t love me enough.”

“How much is enough?” the man asked, “I’m fleeing with you.  I’m hiding with you.  Isn’t that love enough?”

“If it were love enough,” the woman said, “You wouldn’t have had to hide behind ‘This is not the time.’”

“I’m concentrating on hiding behind this bush,” the man said.

“Don’t be flippant,” the woman said.

The man remained silent as they slipped into a storage drain.  Boots tromped over their heads.

“Now you’re sulking,” the woman said.

“You’re being unreasonable,” the man said.

“Because I want you to love me?” the woman asked.

“Because you want me right now to love you more than I love you right now,” the man said.

“So you’re saying you could love me more,” the woman said.

They ducked into a back garden.  A nearby tree shimmered with the inspection of a flashlight.

“I’m not saying anything,” the man said, “I’m a little preoccupied right now.  Do you really think now is the time for this discussion?”

“There should be no discussion,” the woman said.

“I agree,” the man said, “There should be no discussion.  Not now.”

“Not ever,” the woman said, “The fact that we need a discussion makes me question why I’m even coming with you.”

“Because you’ll die if you don’t,” the man said.

“Always with the clever answer,” the woman said as the man boosted her up onto a stone wall.

“We could go back,” the man said, as he joined her atop the wall.

“There is no going back,” the woman said.

“I agree, there is no going back,” the man said.

They could hear a dog searching the ground where they had recently been standing.  They crept along the wall and climbed up into the gridwork of a bridge across the river.  They were two-hundred yards from freedom.

“Will you still love me when you’re free?” the woman asked the man.

“I will love you more because I’m free,” the man replied.

They stepped onto the river bank of freedom.

“Will you love me now you’re free?” the man asked the woman.

The woman replied, “I don’t know if I can love you enough.”