The tears streamed down Jim’s face in the white-hot, Central, Texas Sun in small rivers, not rivulets. It was a flash flood, reminiscent of the torrential downpours in these parts. Texas is a Capricorn state with a Capricorn Moon. When it rains (Cancer) it pours, both within and without.
Mixed with sweat, it was a co-mingling of the essential, emotional fluids that run through everything, from Cacti and geckos to frustrated athletes. He’s a stoic-type, a Taurus, and not given to even mild displays of emotion.
Jim is just ten.
This happened on Saturday.
His saline flush was caused by the fact that he had dropped not one, but three balls in the span of one inning during a game. He was benched, but there was something deeper going on, something disturbing his field and he wasn’t the only boy on my son’s team who exploded into some sort emotional blister pop. My own son was decidedly heavy. Gone was the fire from the past games where he battled on every pitch and for a few, brief weeks, became the heart and soul of the team.
Sometimes we take for granted that people, especially children are limited frames of reference for non-local consciousness. Halfway around the world, children their age are losing life and limbs in places like Afghanistan and Palestine thanks to mortars, shells and drones. Jupiter in Leo will bring us the celebration of the child, but also show us where their tears bleed into the Sun.
Chaos theory presupposes that a butterfly fluttering it’s wings in China leads to a thunderstorm in Kenya. If we are truly connected, we can feel the anguish and the pain of people we have never met or ever will. Children might be the most accessible actually when it comes to this. As I watched Jim’s uncontrollable unleashing of his sadness and grief, he seemed to be tapping into something bigger, like the wonderful lies we love to tell ourselves.
We played at a complex called, “The Field Of Dreams” one of many outposts of semi-rural baseball that have been built by entrepreneurs capitalizing on the powers of emotion and memory, with the advent of tournament season where they operate like a small ballpark. We pay to get in. We pay to have our kids play. We pay $3.00 for Gatorade. They’re all over the place out here.
We have the luxury of telling ourselves that this matters or is meaningful in some way. Maybe our kids have fun—maybe they don’t’. When it’s close to 100 degrees, not even oceanic amounts of sports drinks will beat back the brutality of the mid-day-Sun. Back in the old days, The Field Of Dreams was where vagabond cattle came to die. Late July and August isn’t kind in Texas.
But here we are sitting in our plastic chairs, cheering our kids on, putting up with the usual and expected vagaries of teams and events such as these, keeping our mouths shut and doing our best to be awkwardly and conspicuously polite., because I know that in Texas, you can’t trust people. I know it’s a very broad, Texas –sized generalization, but it’s true. Say the wrong thing to the wrong person and there’s a very good chance it will get back and even distorted to the person one is talking about. Its how discussing issues gets turned into gossip, which in turn gets real toxic, real fast. So people keep their mouths shut—not out of respect—but out of fear.
In Gaza, it’s a lot more serious. Say the wrong thing to the wrong person and you could find yourself in an IDF cell under the threat of suspicion and terror. The stakes are higher, a lot, but the results are similar; a prison of the mind forged out of mistrust masquerading as etiquette or political protocol. Whatever the case, as the Field Of Dreams’ astroturf is a simulacra for the Agrarian Age of America, a synthetic splotch of geometry and proportion, it is also a replicant of what once was and never will be again, our innocence lost and repackaged as a network of polymers that are vacuumed, not cut. Our sentimentality is an obscene luxury at times, especially now. How can we celebrate our own progeny while other children not too unlike our own are being bombed back into the Stone Age. Hopefully, this Jupiter run will bring it to light and not in some kind of fucked up way where children are being moved around and pushed to borders to grab headlines and fat ass tax dollars. The real children there are pawns in a cynical game of community organizing at a global level, paid in full by your tax dollars, just like the death from the skies in Palestine, printed by US and then BORROWED from the same people, at interest. Yeah, sit with that one for a while. It’s not the literal price we pay for our freedom, but the high cost of manufacturing the illusion to keep it on life-support.
I’ll be posting more frequently. It’s time.