A hangover and hockey got in the way yesterday, but around three am I did some light forensics on the dead tree Sunday Times.

I’m so glad to learn that depression has evolutionary benefits. All this time I felt the blues where just the dues one played for a motley past and a kaleidoscopic current. The tax levied for living in the hues, and gradients, and shadows. The vig off the Trig necessary to play the angles. And still, you know, with all that, the game ain’t a lock. But some still think so, bless their hearts.

I’ve always desired to see the world as black white, good or evil, plus or minus, saint or sinner, she loves me…she loves me not.

In my teens I was sentenced to a juvenile institution for an indeterminate period. The Judge noted that under the laws of the Commonwealth it was mandatory that I attend school. When I arrived at the junior joint I learned there where no educational classes, of any kind, for anyone.

No school..no shit.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like school. I like learning just fine. What I didn’t like was being fostered on the folks who ran foster homes. So I’d book. Which meant no reading, writing, and quantum physics.

So the Judge was right. I was breaking the law. But so was the State. When I pointed out this conundrum, I was advised it was complicated. That’s not what the Judge said, I parried, the Judge said it was simple.

Any attempt at sainthood, ended with that bite of an existential apple. And it’s been a steady diet of forbidden fruit since.

I’m not content but at least I know I’m confused. My life is complicated. Your life adds cross currents to my complications. Their lives add riptide to the pool. And as always a tsunami approaches, when fools swim with the sure. And there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. That’s depressing.

The human condition? Ain’t no God that simple, nor faith that fatal, or facts that fixed.

They’re wrong, you know. Three things are certain. Death, taxes, and depression. The indigo of contemplating our collective idiocy. The fault line of faith and fact. The invisible ink of covenant versus the bold signature of self.

The heathen, the hypocrite, either or, slave or master, black or white. The human condition? Ain’t no God that simple, nor faith that fatal, or facts that fixed. Then again? And once again, depression.

It’s why I don’t give a damn who you love, but some of you would suggest I’m Hades bound because I hold Susan’s hand without a ring. And have done so for over twenty years. You have your savior, I have mine.

It’s why I drink and try to figure the likes of Sarah Palin, and worry that if the US pulls out of Afghanistan, little girls will be stoned for simply going to school.

It’s why, when driving in the inner city I see some kid on the corner, all raggedy ass, and sassy, and sure as Sunday…prison bound… I can’t help but wonder why I can’t parse the problem. Damn, I lived the problem. That’s depressing.

I’m depressed about the why of worship, the why of war, and why they so often commingle. It’s blood this and baptized that, but to some, the major concern is the sexual preference of the soldier dying for our sins. Hey, that’s it.

I’m depressed by the trespass of the concept of original sin. There is nothing original about. If we are subject to anything, we are subject to error. Depression is a way to reboot.

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