The Bird with the Broken Neck

I went for a run in the woods this late afternoon. After crossing a street, I saw a bird rustling around in the brush. I looked closer. Its neck was severely contorted, although I saw no other injury to it. It flapped around desperately, only succeeding to toss itself violently around in the leaves. It obviously was not going to live much longer, if not due to predators than due to starvation. Almost immediately I saw myself in the bird, and felt a Nietzsche mule moment looming. I thought to myself that it was doomed unless I could somehow reset its neck. But I’m not a doctor, let alone a pet doctor, but the that bird’s neck was grotesquely contorted, and it could for the life of it navigate properly. I saw myself in the bird because I’ve had scoliosis for my whole adult like, even while having drawn the lot of a frequent manual laborer and heavy-backpack-carrying nomad. I’m thus as concerned about my back as most of us are (in dreamtime, at least) of our teeth. That animal was going to die lost in the dusky woods, flailing helplessly. But then I thought that, well, I have no training this and so likely end up snapping the bird’s neck.

Herein lies the conservative’s argument against progressivism, the argument of Scylla against Charybdis. But, surely, if you know how to fix something, you should. The Democratic party of the US thinks it’s fixing something by no longer relying on tribute paid by billionaires to prevent them from being taxed to death. This metamorphisis comes at the cost of enshrining anti-whiteism as a moral and strategic imperative.

In other news, I have been purged permanently from Facebook for my involvement in the forthcoming Unite the Right 2 rally.

marc-chagall-birthday-1915

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