whose harm is it, anyway

What is harm anyway? There's the obvious nightmare catalog of war, insurrection, repression, torture, and unimaginable, and all-too-observable, endless permutations of physical, mental, social, etc violence, passive or active. And everything in between along a continuum of horror. There's that. There are also ever more subtle acts or omissions of harm, a seemingly infinite inventory of our inhumanity.

But what about the debates that people wage, even on Planet Harm?

Debates about blame, responsibility, history, cause and effect, will, evil, social structures, philosophies, religions, anarchies?

What about cloudy or murky (in the eyes of some) instances of alleged harm? (Mere mention of the word "alleged" sparks debate in some circles.)

The gesture of holding the door open for someone: is it gallant, condescending, ahistorical, sexist, ageist, arrogant, presumptuous, kind, or neutral?

And the rebuff of such a gesture: is that a shade of harm in the form of hues yet named?

The list goes on. The lists go on. (Whose lists?)

The look from one to another, anonymous or intimate: affection, objectification, lust, compassion, anguish, remorse, regret, rage, curiosity, sadness, charity, solidarity, sincerity, lovingkindness . . . ad infinitum.

The same with the written word, the spoken word. The same (multiplied exponentially) with words or parts of words or emojis transmitted by short message service, or SMS, which we all call "text."

The same with the word or words not said.

And then there's the harm of history, the stain and weight of ancient or recent sins, horrors we inherit, a heritage that can't be disappeared, that we cannot escape, even if by association and lineage. 

So, we on Planet Harm live and breathe all this; it's our atmosphere. Some of us plead acceptance; others pray for amnesia; yet others cry for conversion, a magical metanoia; many crave escape (and they find it but only in passing, momentarily).

We Harmlings are standing on a plank over a crevice. We dream of wings. 

We Harmlings push a rope that is slack from use.

The elders sang sagas of a deus ex machina, a dea ex machina, come to the rescue.

We lost the words but remember the melody.

What now?

Planet Harm

You walk in the sands, the landscape you know by heart, the windswept dunes granular as sugar and almost as white. The screeching seagulls declare, "Water is somewhere, but where?" People say, "The sky's the limit." What kind of limit is that? The sands, the horizon, they're the limit. One echoes the other. You have no GPS, no bearings. One direction is the same as any other.

Legend has it we are on the planet Harm, meaning that is what we are taught from the earliest age. We are told that our world is round, not flat. We are taught that Harm is spherical but not circular. We are taught that Harm is the name of our planet.

Who came up with that, and when?

Who can say?

As a citizen, a resident, of planet Harm, your pain is nothing special, nor is your grief. All of us are in harm's way. It's our birthright. If everyone is in harm's way, who has a right to complain? Sure, differences of degree and scale exist. But they don't stand out. Harm is in the air, in our history, in our vocabulary, our line of sight. 

When someone (Anonymous, for our purposes and safety) entertained the idea of escaping the circle of pain, it made no sense. What circle? We see no markings, no signposts. How could there be a circle of harm when harm is all we know? How can we imagine an atmosphere other than our own?

No passports, no tickets, no travel vouchers.  

But no one has ever expressed a desire to leave. Nobody has ever voiced a need to flee. And to where would we go? What would we find there?

We perform our daily chores: melting the sand into glass, sculpting the glass into art, selling the art to the Harmageddonite who bids the highest.

The sharp bristly-minty tang of a dark pine forest. The shock of the chlorine choir of the salty sea, its ripples blinding you. The roar of a river halting you. A blanket of emerald meadow lulling you to sleep.

We hear rumors, murmurs. We dream, or fantasize. Our poets sang sagas.

Talk of escape, revolution, refuge. The elders memorized the chants and passed them on to our children's children.

We hear the secret and dangerous whispers about "charms." The unwritten subversive scriptures etched into our blood.

Charms: the coded hints of talismans, trinkets, fetishes, amulets, totems, periapts, tokens, incantations, chants, litanies, phylacteries, scapulas, beads.

The inscription on the desert rock quotes Empedocles: “God is a circle whose center is everywhere, and its circumference nowhere. ”

The priestesses debate whether this promises hope or despair.

free air

Border crossings were the hardest part. More accurately, immediately after crossing the border the adjustment was difficult, even perilous. We often said we would welcome a buffer zone, some sort of transition space. It's awfully challenging to travel from one climate, atmosphere, and culture into another one totally opposite. As born and raised Confrairians, we naturally took air for granted. We never thought of it as a commodity. Air wasn't something bought or sold. It was there for the taking, no questions asked. We were born into this and never imagined any other regime existed, or could exist. The first crack in the wall of this thinking came with the arrival of the first Contrairian refugess. Who are they? we thought. We knew something was amiss. Their pale pallor, skinniness, hoarse voices, and thirst. It goes without saying: their difficulty breathing. After all, COPD was practically in their DNA. So, free air was our birthright. A given. But not so for the Contrairians. They had to refill their cylinders daily. From what we have heard, the irony was that they had to purchase their air at old gas stations, from machines that said FREE AIR. How's that for bitter irony? And cruelty. They told us that the FREE AIR pumps only took quarters. At last count, 24 quarters for each day-cylinder per person. Adds up, doesn't it? We're just learning about this, but apparently the Contrairians have lung portals for refills. It seems logical to assume that the cylinders contain pure oxygen. We do not know what their atmosphere consists of. The two countries are undoubtedly sealed off by some sort of shield or vacuum. We don't know. We should know. It's a state secret. (We can't help but wonder if there's clandestine collusion and black marketerring on each side of the border, though we can't imagine what THEY would have of value for Confrairians.) The future is bleak. Air wars are a virtual certainty. And we have nowhere to flee to, not that we know of, not yet. Maybe someone reading this can send a message in a bottle, or in an empty cylinder. Something. Anything.

between the brackets [closed captions]

indistinct radio chatter

footsteps approaching

crowd jeering 

inaudible

engine running

clears throat

plate clattering

chuckles softly

elevator dings

voices murmuring

birds chirping

explosion

applause

overlapping conversation

footsteps receding

clock chimes

whimpers

sighs

gunshot

Angela cooing

crowd cheering

door opens

gasps

sirens wailing

Serena crying out in pain

clamoring

airhorn blaring

grunts

breathes heavily

door closes

Handmaids laugh

horse whinnies

helicopter whirring

belt rustling

exhales

sobbing

all chuckle

scoffs

crows cawing

sniffling

paper rustling

cattle prod buzzes

rapid ticking

buckle clanking

Aunt Lydia laughs

pigeons cooing

knocking on door

belting continues

Janine humming

Angela gurgling

Angela gurgling throughout

Janine laughing

church bells ring

'Rain Sometimes' playing

water flowing

laughs