EP&M Online
Editorial
The Accompanist of Wounds
by
Arthur Mortensen
Webmaster
Socrates
If Harry had been a cowboy on a ranch, he wouldn't have known what to
do. A master of political persuasion, he believed in nothing but
how others perceived of him. Presented with a lamb in need
of a quick gunshot to put it out of misery, he would have rushed it to
a veterinarian, abandoning his flock and leaving the gate to the
pasture open. The wounded were what moved Harry; the more they
bled, or seemed to bleed, the more they were his best
constituents. And if his flock followed him as he bore one of
them to see a doctor, he was more than happy to pose for a TV camera,
an interview, or an opinion, as long as each sheep could see or
hear. For Harry did not differentiate between one sheep and
another; and he would abide no wolves. If, on the other hand,
they rushed willy-nilly into another field, or onto the road into
traffic, his attention would turn to the one most likely to vote for
him with a ballot, a wish, or a kiss. To close observers,
however, to be touched by Harry was the kiss of death.
For Harry had a mission inimical to the healthy. If Harry had his
way, everyone would bleed, and each would have to be carried to a
hospital, where Harry's ministrations, paid for from the public till,
would save Harry's reputation and occasionally a patient. It has
been argued by his detractors over the years that Harry's second most
common activity is to put as many people in danger of injury as
possible, so that, hero that he must be, he can rush forward with a
bandage and a stretcher. And some have said that the best aid
Harry could offer the world would be to fall headlong off the Empire
State Building. But Harry has carefully refrained from going that
high in an elevator, whether one cabled inside a skyscraper, or one
built from political, or cultural, exposure.
For Harry believes in nothing but how others perceive of him. As
such, his opinions count for nothing. Shepherding his
constituents, he examines the expressions of their thought, and with an
art for distillation, regurgitates what he hears in speeches and essays
on this subject or that. One day, he promises the moon; the next,
he swears that the moon is a dangerous place. On Tuesday, he
discovers a possible remedy for pain; on Thursday, he avers his
pleasure in the pain of others. He offers his strongest
supporters a deal, and sells them down the river if the price is
right. On Friday he smiles at close of day with a promise to join
the Sabbath's congregation; on Saturday and Sunday he offers a winning
smile to a rabid dog. On Monday morning over coffee, he announces
his intention to run for office; by Monday night he has denounced
democracy as a fraud.
If he calls in the night, be careful to be elsewhere. Turn on
your answering machine; ignore the insistent ringing of the
phone. There is no worse merchant call than one from him, no
promise more likely to benefit none but the promiser. And there
is no voice more subtle in its manipulation, each dulcet tone hoping to
lift the listener as a marionette by its strings. Strangle his voice by
hanging up; and keep him back with an unlisted number. Harry is
not in it for you, not unless you bleed for him, not unless you pray
for his assistance in your hour of need, and not unless, without his
soothing touch, you might die. Trust this; the illness you
fear most is spread by him; his is the vector of the worst
disease. If you succumb to it, do not call his number; do not
shout his name. He will only innoculate you against your best
intentions. Do not trust him; do not believe a word. When he
quotes himself at you,
as he will past boredom, be original in speaking to him. Use
small, succinct words and phrases; stick close to the
Anglo-Saxon. Tell him to go back to
Hell.
Arthur Mortensen