One (Of A Kind)
A telescopic and microscopic look in the mirror
117 billion people have ever lived on planet Earth. Ballpark figure.
That covers the past 192,000 years. Give or take a century.
And that number includes everyone of the 8 billion living today.
You are one.
I am one.
A man. Born of woman. As all humans are.
If my father and mother were not driven by Mother Nature to make the beast-with-two-backs creating the opportunity of that one particular sperm joining that one particular egg — then the Earth would never-ever-whatsoeverhave had this particular me that was yielded to walk its surface, to present you with this distinct perspective.
The millions of sperm siblings that did not get to be something like me, yet very different, pout.
The earliest photo of me—pre-word-formation—has this deer-in-headlights dazed look. And yet the expression clearly speaks: what the hell is all this I’ve stumbled into?
Nobody around me really knew—they were winging it, all just going along with the show already in progress when they arrived.
I’m a man.
An old man in fact.
Way before I even hit my teens I’d unmasked the reality that Santa Claus was merely a jolly buffoon made up by the old folks. Within that realization was disclosed the revelation that people were able to go on quite well with their gift giving, and playing bad holiday music—all without the illusions of anything as supernatural as flying reindeer.
While a garden variety of Seeds of Doubt had sprung from the fertile soil of my mind in the previous decade, it was only during my early teens that they began to truly bloom. Why? Who? When? What?
“Why do you have to ask so many questions?”, my mother often responded.
God and Country — Stories That Sell
The two concepts that brought forth the largest blossoms of my Existential Inqusition — were those strictly human inventions: “god” and “war”.
God was the ever-present. Stories of “his” adventures in the ancient past—in various beatific appearances, always with supernatural miracles—were supposed to be enough of a hint to his presence still being among us in the present; watching and guiding.
Since my parents had packed Christianity in with the baggage they brought over from the Old World, I received a dozen years or so of stories about him and his “son”, Jesus.
Born in a manger, crucified via the Stations of The Cross (hence the gold crucifixion-device-on-a-chain that people wear around their necks), dead (well, for three days), and then—resurrected. Voila!—he conquered death—and thus the suggestion that everyone else could, simply by believing. Step right up.
We are expected to listen attentively to the wild stories regarding whatever the particular caricature of god that parents pass along. People only rarely actually pick their religion—not much shopping around amidst the different views ensconced in thick volumes on bookshelves. Rather, they slowly learn to accept what their parents proclaim — and then of course repeat the cycle of inculcation with their children. Any admission that all this was just a human concoction was never forthcoming.
When I was fourteen the creator of the universe needed to recall my father and so gifted him a heart attack at age 52.
[A note for another story another time. I had a five year spin through religion in my adult life—yes, a somewhat more radical Catholicism than I had grown up with—in part in search for meaningful community, and inspired by people who had gained moral strength from “faith”; Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, Liberation Theology, Daniel Berrigan, and others. And then, over a short period of time, like a drug wearing off, or a dream dissolving, I was spun back to a place resembling Kansas more than heaven. I had molted again. Leaving the artifact of faith with the man behind the curtain, I was bestowed with the valuable residue of having lived from a different perspective, one whose mythic epiphanies now rang false, again. That said, the Catholic church still has it down with great music, art, and incense.]
In school we were learning something called History. Again—stories.
Tales of human endeavors in the past, the largest portion of which were the human adventures called “wars”. The reasons for these were colorfully extrapolated—chess moves across maps with shifting borders.
As the narratives approached closer to the present it all got a bit more black and white, trouble making bad guys (them) and valiant good guys (us). Ultimately these texts were preparing the boys to be ready to kill/die for whatever was the current adventure—and for the girls to wave the flags along the parade routes. Looking around as an adult I note that only a minority step into the cultural discomfort that exists outside these propaganda barricades.
“I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America . . . “
And of course— “. . . one Nation under God”—because it should be obvious to the newly indoctrinated that “he” is always on the side of the person invoking him.
“Every man must do things alone; he must do his own believing and his own dying.” — Martin Luther King Jr.
Existentialism 101
“Existentialism is the philosophical belief we are each responsible for creating purpose or meaning in our own lives. Our individual purpose and meaning is not given to us by Gods, governments, teachers or other authorities.”
— [Ethics Centre]
When I was 16, my first girlfriend told me that I was “too existential”.
I wear that designation proudly as a badge of honor to this day.
This credential made it necessary for me to say no thanks to that cleverly instituted national game show — the Vietnam Death Lottery.
Military men get medals for “serving”—getting trained to obey and use their bodies to do whatever they’re told without daring to question—and critical thinking is prohibited. Meanwhile the wealthy and comfortable cheer on from the sidelines, their investment portfolios always getting bigger. It’s always very successful—the War Racket.
“One is still what one is going to cease to be and already what one is going to become. One lives one’s death, one dies one’s life.” — Jean-Paul Sartre
From amidst the vast cornucopia of concocted dreams and schemes all around the globe, about 150,000 of their human devisers will die today. Those living amidst fantasies fueled by power and wealth are not immune.
The French say “c’est la vie”, and Kurt Vonnegut wrote “So it goes.”
I discovered, many years after we had parted ways, that my first girlfriend had died, murdered, with a millionaire husband the prime suspect.
“I took a test in Existentialism. I left all the answers blank and got 100.”
― Woody Allen
Brief Thoughts On Fitting In
Gender and other norms burrow into our minds like ticks, lay their eggs of time-released submission, and we all fall into place—however in different ways. And like viruses, always mutating, Permutations of Style emerge and fade and strongly suggest we find a way to adjust.
How else describe grown men now wearing baseball caps (backwards even) and women injecting collagen into their faces until they grow duck lips.
Disregarding the extremes—uniforms or burkas—how far can anyone wander away from the proscribed choices of behavior for their customs or traditions, their sex, their age, and the numerous other pigeon holes. There is an everwaiting throng of humans ready to assist with the cultural policing.
Consider the judgement, outrage even, that occurs in the land of the free at the mere sight of a woman not shaving her legs or a man wearing fingernail polish. Much less not standing up for the Star-Spangled Banner before relaxing into an afternoon of watching men play baseball.
Oh so subtly, obedience is demanded.
Go ahead—take a few minutes in front of the mirror—and see how you’ve fashioned yourself to fit in. Is that a pair of those ugly aerodynamically designed running shoes that have become so popular?
“Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.” ― Kurt Vonnegut
The Big Picture — Time.
“It is not that we have so little time but that we lose so much. … The life we receive is not short but we make it so; we are not ill provided but use what we have wastefully.”
― Lucius Annaeus Seneca (perhaps contemplating his smartphone)
The Small Picture—You.
What makes up “you”?
(It’s not that new haircut.)
We are each and every one a bubbling, throbbing stew of bacteria, viruses, and fungi. Sixty percent or so water. Spending our days walking, seeing, talking, feeling, smelling, eating, hearing, sucking, fucking, killing, laughing, shopping, writing . . .
But more than merely being a metaphor for the ignorance and greed that drives our species — we really truly are all full of shit.
A man living to age 76 will produce around 25,000 pounds of poop over his lifetime, and a woman living to age 81 will produce about 26,000 lbs.
About the weight of two elephants. Enough to fill a large dump truck.
I’ve explored the more icky wonders and horrors of living in this container of flesh and bones before. You can read it here . . .
You Don’t Want To Know
Too Late Now: The Accident Called “You” Is Already In Progress
“Physical reality is one of the biggest horror movies of all, and you know how we love horror movies.” ― Thaddeus Golas
We are Fragile (A reminder).
A few days ago my friend, who was planning to move to Paris for a year, was feeling a bit off, so his doctor sent him for a stress test. The diagnosis led to him being quickly admitted into a hospital and receiving a triple-bypass surgery on his heart. (Scars and bruises aside, the “miracles” of medicine prevail — he is healing and planning his travel, however delayed by a month or so).
“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans”
— John Lennon
We—Skinny Dipping In The River of Time
May death come to us not from the willful choice of some mystical creator of the universe—nor from the insane desires of men who create wars and get others to fight them.
Perhaps we can go like this . . .
“No matter what your spiritual condition is, no matter where you find yourself in the universe, your choice is always the same: to expand your awareness or contract it.” ― Thaddeus Golas
When I leave here and I’m in another place that is beyond words, my stardust—as it recycles back to into the universe—will wonder: what the hell was that all about?
However committed they were to its rituals and role-playing, and whatever stories they made up to give it what they called “meaning”—from gods to wars—not a one in all the billions really had a clue either.
“I can’t go on, I’ll go on.” ― Samuel Beckett
art/text © AleXander Hirka 2025. All Rights Reserved.
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