skurvivors2

Warpaint. Spiritual warpaint, but remember � Michael�s too smart for that hokum, he doesn�t believe in spirituality, entelechy, all that primitive Moleed bullshit.

A couple days later Michael was standing beside the tribal campfire. The next instant, Michael was face-down in the tribal campfire. The next instant, Michael was fleeing the tribal campfire to douse himself in a nearby stream. He emerged from baptism with second-degree burns on his hands, and a light singeing of his face. He squealed like a baby for a while, but quickly was sedated with morphine and helicoptered out by the television-show producers.

Michael had a brush � only a brush � with Moleeds. Michael discovered a Spiritual Truth � his belief is puny, and in this context almost irrelevant. Cynical, rationalistic certainties, na�ve bravado, and heirarchic corporate mentalities are no protection against natural consequence. Disrespect incites natural consequence. Getting parboiled is a natural consequence.

Michael later said he had no idea how he had fallen into the fire. Indeed. As the videotape confirms, none of his tribe-mates were near him, and he didn�t slip. One second he was near the fire. The next second he was in the fire.

Now if we�re able � and willing � to suspend our magnificent and hard-earned reductionism for a moment, we might see the episode from an altered perspective. Let's play my favority game, "pretend."

Pretend I�m an uninvited and unwelcome visitor in a foreign land. Pretend that land is caretaken by a group � we could even call them a tribe, say the Home Tribe, or Homeys � that has been there a long time, in close physical, emotional and spiritual proximity to that land.

I show up one day without a note from my teacher, and exit my noisy machine with a herd of my fellow Survivors. We squat on a seemingly empty patch of Outback and fix to make ourselves right at home, doing pretty much as we please, cutting vegetation to build shelters, burning wood, catching fish, killing animals, bumbling about like blind baby rats.

The home tribe, the Homeys, simply watch and wait, to see what the universe has dropped in their backyard. True, the new kids on the block are uncouth and ignorant in the extreme. But the Homeys, having been around a long time, have learned the wisdom of tolerance toward children. Tolerance is useful -- up to a point.

For the most part, me and my Survivors don�t offend the local sensibilities too grievously. Yes, we take what we wish without asking � as if picking from the shelves at Safeway, as if everything was free and unattached to sacrifice, as if something recently alive wasn�t dying to satisfy my creature comforts.

Ah, well, say the Homeys, kids do the same thing before they grow up. They don�t emerge spouting gratefullness. Besides, the newbies provide comic releif, and the girls are kinda cute.

In addition to not asking, however, we take what we wish without gratitude, again in ignorance of what has given itself for our benefit.

Hoo hoo, go the Homeys, the selfish little scamps.

One day, however, I decide to consolidate my position in the primate hierarchy by bringing home the Big Bacon. I start talking myself up, how slick a hunter I am, and pretty soon I�m in the bush, stalking a wild pig.

Uh, oh, go the Homeys. Don�t go there, go the Homeys.

But I�m no savage. I don�t believe in Moleeds. If I heard a voice in my head, I'd run for the Depakote.

Besides, it�s my world, and I go where I damn well please.