As I sit here surrounded by the comfortable artifacts of life, a hot chocolate in hand and ensconced in my soft comfortable couch, I am reading about the death of Kevin Barnett, a young Hollywood personality . . . very probably by drugs. People lament the passing of this comedian. They live so close to the edge.
But if they didn’t live close to the edge, it would fall to us to find out where the limits were. I would have to get up off my couch and stop taking the safe course through the jungle, so adeptly defined by those willing to go to the edge . . and sometimes over it.
I read where the Trump voters in Iowa still support him. I guess if you live on a farm in the middle of the country and don’t really have to deal with things beyond the corner café, with pals that you have known for the last 70 years, expounding on whether or not to add another parking space in the town square, it would be difficult to internalize the turmoil of immigrants clawing their way toward a better life, just as all of our ancestors did. Or, sympathize with those who are defining the future for us . . or, at least, defining what to avoid as we prudently go where no man has gone before.
As I am ensconced in this big, fluffy chair, I am thinking about the hypocrisy of it all.
I think I am going to get myself another hot chocolate.