Heading into Autumn 2022
My Purity Is Ruining My Zen
The other day, at the breakfast table, I was opining about the completely paranoid people whom I encounter during my jaunts into the outside world. One of them sounded absolutely overjoyed as she informed me:
“It’s Covid-Forever now.”
She’s in contact with Her Doctor all the time.
“My” doctor would not want to hear from me, all of the time. In fact, the less, the better, for each of us.
There is, however, in California, if not within the United States and the entire Western “Civilized” world a sense of joyous relief that the Magic Bullet has been found to cure the Common Cold! History has occurred: The 3-in-1 flu shot shoots that Magic Bullet, this year, and forever after.
It’s a lie. A bald-faced lie, one that keeps Big Med out of the red, at least for now. At least, until Big Med loses enough money on this scam, or series of scams, to declare The Thing Dead.
I impatiently asked Dear Husband, “Don’t They care about bamboozling these people?”
I’ve read about the NHS doctor who wears the mask while on the public-health care job, then takes it off once he enters the private-physician arena:
He strips for cash.
Dear Husband informed me that my purity is ruining my zen. I am, once again, digging too deeply into an otherwise enjoyable experience. Laughing at the self-righteous stupidity, and the fools insolently willing to be fools, that scenario ought to amuse me, by now. It’s nothing new on the face of the planet.
I am working on this one, my marked tendency to try to impose a sensible summation on a rather silly and inane situation. The natural sense of design within me must — somehow — form a perfectly balanced and symmetrical consequence and conclusion to what is, essentially, complete chaos, a shambolic mess, a hellacious hodgepodge.
Here is where my idle hands and fingers take to needle-and-thread to stitch up things that ought to be stitched up, instead of, say, an election in the UK.
Last week, I learned some news from my spouse regarding the UK:
Queen Elizabeth II had died.
My dear husband sounded very downhearted and dispirited. I immediately felt a sense of serenity, not quite zen, but close to it. I comforted him with these words:
“She is at peace now. She’s freed from her earthly sufferings. And she no longer needs to be propping up and holding up all of those messes around her. Everything that was falling down can now collapse.”
I am not taking part in watching the mass public grieving of a woman who had been the butt of jokes, the target of resentment and derision, and, most recently, the scapegoat for two spoiled-brat scammers dubbed Sussex. The hypocrites may shed their crocodile tears. For me, mourning is a private matter, regardless of the fame of the decedent.
I very intentionally missed the Chuck-and-Di show, as it was called by the Associated Press electronics technicians with whom I associated in the early 1980s. They’d worked overtime for an entire week, wiring up major portions of Northern California to broadcast a royal wedding that was, in my opinion at the time, much more show than go.
My media boycott of that era wasn’t difficult to accomplish since I didn’t own a TV. I still don’t own one, technically speaking. The wide-screen is used for viewing vintage movies and tv-shows, nothing else. There are no incoming signals to my abode from the pesky globalist propagandists.
Yesterday, I mentioned to my spouse that it’s been a bit of a disciplined effort, not checking out any of the side-show click-bait online. He said that it was a very disciplined effort. I hypothesized that the undertaking was much easier than — after having submitted myself to the glaring/blaring words&pix — having to rectify and/or purge my memory of the exaggerations and duplicity and dishonesty. I can imagine more realistic events on my own.
I did catch a glimpse of Charles and Anne, yesterday, as they were following the coffin into Westminster Abbey. My eyes focused briefly on the quiet grace and decorum of the lovely Princess Anne; but then I went right ahead with my digital music research for a dramatic reading of “The Russian Artist.”
Evidently, that grim procession was the occasion marking the precursor for five days of public viewing scheduled for the deceased monarch. I adamantly refuse to take a spectator part in any of this momentous public spectacle, and I’ll not partake in watching the burial of this Queen in the King George VI Memorial Chapel in St. George’s Chapel of Windsor Castle. It’s been the setting of the history of English nobility since time out of mind.
I am not a Royal Watcher. I didn’t look at the funeral of Diana, or the wedding of Will and Kate, nor that of the ne’er-do-well brother and the wench. I have too much respect for The Crown, and all that comes with it, to observe the public displays that display well-manicured images which often betray the somber realities that are, basically, none of my business as an American.
The royal subjects, aka the citizens are lining up to, at last, meet the Queen, in an embalmed state. I find the entire scene and setting unseemly, but royalty has its rituals, its prerogatives, its traditions, its myriad emblems of heritage. I can respect, admire, and even revere the pageantry, but not the persons who abuse that solemn magnificence for the sake of appearing honorable and virtuous, and for getting their made-up mugs in the limelight.
I can easily understand the untarnished love that the Brits hold for this unparalleled and resolute woman who was, in many ways, a much more effective queen than was QE1. The Virgin Queen, amidst her triumphs, was nonetheless manipulated, betrayed and used by many a courtier. She gave no end of trepidation to William Shakespeare anent a line, a peaceful line, of succession.
There’s more than a constitutional reason for an heir-apparent to wed. Princess Elizabeth of York wisely married a man who became a true partner in her life. I knew, last year, that once he’d ascended to his reward, that his loving wife, The Queen, would not be far behind in joining him on that celestial throne.
Last week, I encountered some horribly comical, but accurate, memes online whilst researching pix for my essay, “Comedic Timing.” I’d typed into the search engine: Worst King of England, and images of Charles the Third instantly popped up. He was wearing an ermine and scarlet velvet cape, holding a scepter and looking longingly at his gin-powered car.
“He’s already a joke,” I stated of this visual mockery to Dear Husband. He marveled that the meme-makers weren’t even waiting until the Queen was interred.
They’re not letting their purity ruin their zen!
I’m not sure if Nostradamus is right on this one, and, if he is, it might be pure coincidence. The merciful end of the long and dignified life of a remarkably strong, courageous, and decisive queen frees the British peoples to finally face all that has gone wrong in the Sceptered Isle. They no longer have to rein in what must be righteous rage toward their “leaders” for the sake of The Queen.
Whether a funeral is for a revered and wonderful female sovereign, or for an anonymous nobody — a little woman in a little town, the ceremony attracts the same sorts of people:
The fawning insincere egotists who claim to have been soooo close to the deceased as they callously crow about their unbelievable bonds (which are unbelievable);
those comrades of the heart who truly were blessed with a real knowledge of the deceased. That treasured intimacy was so treasured and so intimate that words become superfluous.
The Media shall flourish in their patented and long-practiced skills: gossiping and catty chatting over Who Is Coming, Who Won’t Be There, Who Might Attend, and Why.
Those whispered vulgarities occur whether the corpse is an auto mechanic, a movie star, a politician, or a queen. With this historic event, the Media are the primary offenders, as they always are, as they always will be, heading the hearsay procession with the List of the Invited Guests, the Funeral Non-Invites, the Too-Sick-To-Come, the Grief-stricken and Injured Parties Who Came to Be Seen (but who got ignored anyway).
I’m not letting my zen ruin my purity concerning a woman who was more than a legend in her own time.
There are times when the resounding realities of life must percolate on their own into one’s consciousness, as the heart yearns toward acceptance and wisdom. This eternal rest for Queen Elizabeth II is a watershed event in her nation, in the world, perhaps even in my life.
As I hand-stitch the hems of my garments, I shall think of the far-reaching achievements of a superior woman during her reign of more than seventy years. She set those ruling records in Britain, and she set the record straight for those critics and crass performers of the press who had gleefully forecast the fall of the House of Windsor with her demise.
Only time, and the British peoples, not the petty pompous ruling class at the BBC, shall decide the fate of the monarchy. The hand of God might even be in that destiny, as it surely was in the life, and in the death, of the second Queen Elizabeth regnant of the United Kingdom and of those other Commonwealth realms.
Her purity did not ruin her zen. Elizabeth Alexandra Mary was a woman of providence just as much as she was of patriotic duty. She performed those duties amidst a daily life that was a world removed from the rest of us. That she excelled so well in that regal domain speaks to the common sense that was among her greatest virtues.
My zen currently strives toward that common sense, which is a wisdom that purity rarely grasps.